Ivory Keys
by JessicaJ
Summary: He knows from the first touch of his lips to her skin that they are connected- their fates interwoven, their consciences intertwined. His primal desires beg him to indulge further, but can he allow that? Can he keep her safe from himself? NEW Chapter: "There is something on the horizon, something close to breaking… I can feel it."
1. Magnetism

So I got this into my head, and it's sexy, and it won't go away. I may even continue it…

So review PLEASE.

Ok, a song to listen to whilst reading. It's stunning, really: Love Theme, Lisbeth Scott (True blood Original Score) It's available on iTunes (probably downloadable for free somewhere), and it is a really exquisite piece.

1. Magnetism

It was a night like any other, the bar owner thought to herself, plunging her fingers into her hair, to better scratch the scalp at the point underneath the elastic. Her bar was filled with the hum of familiar chatter; just a local tavern occupied by local people. She could probably name each face if she tried.

Table tops gleamed dully under the bar's amber lights, each face she saw cast golden in the synthetic candle bulb's glow. The dark wood floor creaked a little as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, heaving a sigh, chin resting in her hand. The town of Costa Del Sol was quiet at this time of year; tonight was uncharacteristically warm for May, and she'd yet to adjust to the climate. The fans whirred overhead, serving to make the air less stagnant, though she occasionally had to fan herself with a menu, to keep comfortable; despite the fact that her hair was tied out of her way, stray strands tucked hastily behind her ears, and her casual attire of black shorts and a gray cotton shirt to expose as much flesh as would be considered decent. She'd also flung open the windows, though the air was still, filled with cricket song.

Making casual chatter with her barmaid Susanna served to ease a little of her boredom. Susanna was working for a year to earn money to travel the world, she told her ambitiously, hands gesticulating wildly between drinks orders. She was only eighteen; A year for her which had been and gone with little notability.

Tifa Lockheart wished she could travel the world too. Though she'd never been the overly motivated type, like Susanna obviously was. She played things safe, kept to what she knew. And it hadn't got her anywhere, except running a decent bar in a holiday resort. Nothing notable. Just safe.

"Oh my god…" Susanna breathed suddenly at her shoulder, her well manicured hand covering her mouth, turning her head away, blonde ponytail swishing wildly. "That guy that's just come in… He's beautiful."

Tifa started to chuckle, raising her head to look. Susanna had strange tastes, more often than not. Her smile dropped from her face as their eyes met.

Time seemed to freeze, the fans slowing in their monotonous spiralling, the gentle breeze disturbing his dark hair. A rivulet of sweat curved its way along the nape of her neck, down between her shoulder blades.

He was dressed normally; a natural coloured shirt, dark pants, boots. Nothing that would catch her attention. But his face…

So pale, compared to most who lived around this area, dark smouldering eyes, striking bone structure, and sensuous lips, pulled into a thin line, in an expression that might have meant disapproval. He seated himself by the window, his eyes never leaving her face. She was unable to look away herself, gripping the edge of the bar with limp fingers.

"You are going over there." Susanna urged, prodding her fingers into Tifa's lower back. "He is so looking at you."

"Don't say things like that, I'm panicking as it is." Tifa turned around swiftly, eyes scanning the labels of the spirit rack habitually.

"Alright, if I order, you can take it to him."

"You are so cruel, I hope you know that. Makes me wonder why I am paying you." Tifa grumbled, scooping those pesky escaping strands of hair behind her ear again.

"C'mon, Tif, don't be so stiff! Countless hot guys hit on you in the summer season, and you never accept one offer. Not one. At least find out his name."

"But I…"

"Shit, he's coming over!"

"What? Where are you going?"

She spun on her heel, trying her damndest to look casual. His pale hands came to rest atop the bar, leaning forward slightly, knee-weakening gaze trained on her face, never blinking.

"Good evening." He said, voice as smooth as silk. She felt her insides melt a little. Damn that barmaid.

"I'm sorry about that, just a little dispute-- can I get you anything?"

His eyes momentarily left her face to scan the shelves around her. "I'm not sure if you'll have what I usually drink."

"Ask. I'll see what I can do." She answered smoothly, in a way that made her proud of herself.

Pinning her to the spot again, expression completely empty, he considered her. Though there was something…"A smooth Red wine if you don't mind. And…" He paused, the faintest quirk of his lips into a knee-weakening smirk. "One for yourself."

Normally she would laugh off a proposition like that. But there was just something about this man in particular… Susanna had known it, and she knew it now. He was beautiful. Intoxicating… and it kindled her curiosity.

Lingering only briefly in the cool of the wine cellar, she returned with her personally selected bottle, scanning the bar on her return, verifying his presence. He was waiting at the bar still, hands folded before him. Her heart gave a little leap into her throat. She swallowed it back down.

Uncorking the bottle expertly, taking down one thin-stemmed wine glass, she poured a small amount into it. Eyes never leaving her face, he pinched the stem between delicate pale fingers, teasing it along the surface top towards him. Raising it to his lips, he tasted it, closing his eyes momentarily to consider the flavours.

"Excellent choice." He concluded, fixing his dark eyes on her once more. She felt a swell in her bosom.

"It's a personal favourite of mine. They don't sell it anymore."

"Then you have wonderful taste, it seems. I wonder, won't you join me?"

She paused under his heavy stare. She never drank with customers. One rule for all. She didn't allow her barmaids to, most of the time at least. Most men who flirted with her here were blonde surfers, pretty boys who cared a little bit too much about themselves, and their hair rather than any other, she rarely had cause to accept. But did she have cause to decline _him_? She had to admit it to herself, she was attracted. Smiling softly, her eyes never breaking contact with his, she reached up to the glass rack overhead and plucked one down, setting it down gently before her. Returning her smile faintly, he filled their glasses halfway, and slid hers across the counter towards her.

"Take a seat," She suggested, pointing to the booth to the immediate right of the bar. He took both glasses, inclining his head to allow her to be seated first. So, a gentleman as well? This was going well.

They sat across from one another in a loaded silence. She listened to an outbreak of laughter from across the other side of the bar, heard Susanna rummaging around in the fridges for beers. She folded her hands before her on the table, resting an inch or so from her glass, seated rather rigidly, legs tucked beneath her seat to save the awkward event of accidental clashing of limbs.

Aware of his eyes upon her, she coughed softly in her hand, taking her glass of wine and bringing it to her lips. He admired the colouring of the tender flesh of her lips, the way her throat looked as she tipped her head back slightly to drink.

"Are you on vacation here?" She ventured, running her tongue over her bottom lip, to ensure the wine was totally gone. The heady flavours of plum, dark chocolate and the earthy undertones of the wood lingered on her tongue.

"Of sorts." He responded, taking a sip also. "I own a house not too far from here."

"Oh. Not that Costa is small, but I haven't noticed you. And you don't look like an local." She told him. "Are you new to the area?"

He gave a soft chuckle, lowering his head. "I am new, yes. My father owned the house, before he passed away."

"I'm terribly sorry."

He waved a hand impatiently. "No matter. It was a long time ago. I just never thought I would live here. Though it seems it has come in useful to me."

She considered him carefully. "You are not here for long?"

"For as long as I want to be." He replied, taking another mouthful of wine, swirling the glass by the stem. "Though I travel around as part of what I do for a living."

"What do you do?" She asked, the fire of her curiosity suitably fanned.

"I am a musician," He sank a little lower in his seat, enthralled by her inquisitiveness, by the way she leant a little closer. At this proximity, she could almost drown herself in those eyes. In this light, to her they seemed like crushes grapes, molten rubies, with melted chocolate hues. All framed behind dark, delicate eyelashes.

"A pianist?"

"Yes." It was almost a question, and she laughed behind her hand. "Is it that obvious?"

"Your hands give you away." She splayed her fingers before her face to illustrate. "I used to play once, but I could never afford to buy a piano in later years." She sighed, suddenly wishing things had been different.

"Tell me your name." He was leaning closer now, a gentle line of a frown etched into his forehead.

She almost couldn't respond. "It's Tifa."

"Short for Tiffany?"

"No. Just Tifa." She responded with a swift shake of her head, pony tail swaying with each movement of her head.

"I see."

"I know who you are." Her lips were suddenly dry, though she daren't moisten them with her tongue. "You are playing at the Theatre in a few evening's time. I've heard your work before, and it's exquisite, though I never knew your face. You are Vincent Valentine."

"I am." He leant back again, as if he too had realised how close they were. Taking a more casual stance with one elbow resting on the back of his seat, he considered her.

"Why are you here of all places?"

"I like to soak up the atmosphere." He gave a casual flick of the hand. "I like to wander in the evenings. It helps to clear my mind."

"So you come to a bar?"

He laughed again, displaying perfect white teeth. "I have been searching in vain for a place which might cater to my tastes… and… It seems fortune had been in my favour this night." He was making her blush, though if he knew it, he said nothing.

"I should be glad of your patronage." She acknowledged him with a polite nod of her head. "Though I must not neglect my bar maid. I should get back to work, if you'll excuse me."

"I have appreciated your company, Tifa." He watched her rise. Raising his face to the light, the colours in his irises were set ablaze. She realised belatedly that his hand was raised to her, palm open and facing upwards. Hesitantly, she placed her palm in his, watching him with barely contained fascination as he drew it close and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. "Have a pleasant evening."

She would have liked to response with something cheery and polite, but her voice was being disobedient, to say the least. He drained the last of his wine, stood gracefully and crossed to the bar, where Susanna was stood by the cash register.

Busying herself with collecting up their empty glasses, she didn't notice he had left the bar; She hoped Susanna would have the discretion to save her any embarrassment by waiting till he was out the door, and halfway down the street before bombarding her.

"Oh. My. God." Came her barmaid's indignant voice seconds later. Scanning the room to confirm he had left, she released a deep, slow breath. "He was totally into you. He didn't take his eyes off you the whole time. And he kissed you hand? Who does that anymore?!" Her voice was a breathless squeak, as she draped her arm over Tifa's shoulders.

"He's a musician; I guess he knows what sort of effect he has on women. I may not be the first…" She reasoned, corking the bottle she had opened, and stowing it away beneath the bar. Not because, she told herself, he might return.

"But still. Wow. He paid for two glasses by the way."

She raised a brow at _that_. "He is playing in the Old Town Theatre in a few days."

"Really?" Susanna's eyes wend wide, glancing up from where she had begun to wipe down the bar. "You should totally go and see him. Maybe if he sees you again… he might ask you out!"

"Really Susanna, you amaze me sometimes with your totally unfounded optimism." She chuckled, grabbing a rag cloth from the sink to assist her barmaid. "I mean, the theatre is huge. What are the odds he'd spot me out of all the faces. Besides, I know his concert is sold out. I remember seeing a poster a few days ago."

"Damn." Susanna huffed, squirting the next stretch of counter with disinfectant. "That's pretty sucky."

"Well… I wasn't thinking anything would come of that encounter."

"Not even a little bit?" Her eyebrow shot up, disappearing behind her blonde fringe.

"Well, maybe a little. He's about the most attractive man I've seen in.. well--"

"--Your life?" Susanna suggested, joining Tifa in her laughter.

"I know it's not every day you meet someone like that, but it was just a one off probably."

"What did you talk about anyways?" Susanna asked, tossing her dishrag into the sink once more, and turning to fiddle with the spirit bottles, turning them all label first on the shelf.

"Oh, just where he was from, what he was doing here…" Tifa replied nonchalantly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"And? What was he doing here?"

"Something about looking for a bar that catered to his tastes." Tifa gave a shrug, teasing the elastic band out of her hair. It placed unnecessary tension on her neck, and her crown. Her nerves seemed to sag with relief, as she combed her fingers tips through her roots.

"And?!" Susanna tapped her foot impatiently on the wooden floor, eyebrows perpetually hidden.

"Well, he seemed to like it here. But he left after only one drink, didn't he? Probably looking for more bars, with more attractive barmaids." She rolled her eyes, stretching her arms about her head. "I won't lose any sleep over it."

Susanna gave her a reproachful glance though she said nothing more, as the set about clearing all the empty tables, and called last orders. Devoid of patrons, her bar seemed small, and empty. They worked together swiftly to clean the floors and tables, and shove all the chairs neatly beneath them. She shut each window systematically, before letting Susanna out the front door before locking it.

Her bedroom window thrown open to catch any whisper of a breeze, she lay awake, gazing up at her ceiling fan, whirling away silently, a cool breeze kissing her skin. Kicking off her shorts, she slept in her underwear, or at least she did when she managed to drift off. For unwelcome thoughts of an unexpected visit plagued her mind, and eventually, her dreams. She woke suddenly once, certain that there were a pair of multi-hued eyes fixed unwaveringly upon her, and she wouldn't admit to anyone, the nature of the dream she had woken from. It just didn't hold with her. She never dwelt on things like this.

Or at least, not usually.

What had been so different about him? His dark hair, falling just so into his eyes; those beautiful eyes. Pale pianist's fingers which she knew could create some of the most wonderful music she'd heard in a long time. Struck by a desire to listen to it right then, she rummaged around in her drawer and dug out her personal music player, and shoved in her ear phones.

Listening to it wasn't really helping to not think about him, though she realised that she didn't really mind doing so. Even it had been just a chance, one-off encounter, it had still made her feel… giddy, like an inexperienced teenager again.

As his fingers worked their way across the keys, drifting through melodies and heart-stopping crescendos, she finally drifted off to sleep.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

So, what did you think about that? Phew, it was a sexy image I had in my mind, and I had to get it out. Sorry for being all menopausal in nature. Please review.


	2. Intervention

Did you see it? Watch again. _Carefully_. I weave, and never drop one stitch. Follow the wake of my fingertips…

2. Intervention

She tossed her satchel down in the corner in the darkened studio, hands resting on sharp hips and she surveyed the room. Perhaps not as big as she would have liked, but it would have to do. At group recitals, she and her partner never seemed to get enough practice in.

For Tifa was a dancer, by day; or whenever she could be, at least. When she woke in the mornings, she would do her stretches, grasping her ankle in fingertips, dipping her spine, head raised, training her muscles to be supple, and dexterous. She donned her en Pointe shoes, wincing a little with each step. She recalled when she'd first wore them; she'd been twelve years old, and so proud to finally be ready to go en Pointe. Her feet had bled every day, until after years of hardening, of training, of blood sweat and tears, and through sheer determination, she'd mastered it.

Things had taken a back seat after the crash, though. The tragic derailing of a train that had killed both her parents. She'd hung up her silk shoes, suddenly too heavy, too burdened to raise her arms elegantly above her head and point her toes, too broken for grace and dexterity.

Turning seventeen, all her friends around her were excited about college, about scholarships. She'd not even considered it. She'd always wanted to be a dancer, since she was five, returning from her very first ballet lesson. But now, she had nothing. She wasn't exceptionally studious, nor was she enthusiastic about sports. Dancing had been her life.

That's when she'd rummaged around under her bed to find silk shoes that no longer fit her anymore. Shoes that reminded her that she _could_ fly, that she could turn her body into a work of art under hot stage lights, moving fluidly along to the accompaniment of a Grand piano. So she'd walking to the stores and bought a new pair, black silk, and donned them once more.

Training had felt harder this time, but she did it, often performing leg stretches between writing sentences of her essays, in prep for her finals. They didn't seem important, or relevant to her, but she was no fool. Her mother had drilled into her that dancing was all well and good, but to have good grades as a failsafe was better.

The day she graduated, she'd felt proud of herself. Decent grades, Lockheart. Now, she could focus on her dream. On what she really wanted. Though it was never easy. The inheritance money her parents had left for her covered the bills, as she was old enough to live alone now, though it didn't pay for lessons. Downhearted, she realised she would have to find work to fund it.

Her nineteenth birthday came. She was to perform for a place at Junon's prestigious Contemporary Arts Academy. Though auditions for the CAA were renowned for their being almost impossible. She devoted every waking moment to each step of her routine. It had to be perfect.

Standing at the end of that long room, with its old, perfectly polished floor, and the long ceiling to floor windows, she felt as scared as she had ever felt in her life. Thinking of her parents as she placed each step, as she executed each pirouette, as she floated across the room on the toes of her black satin shoes, she managed to dance with no flaw. Her head was raised high, her fingertips always relaxed, poised with perfection, spine straight and tall. _Imagine you are being pulled up by an invisible thread towards the ceiling…_ _now breathe…_

Yet unfortunately, she had failed to win a place. An audition at the slightly less renowned dance Academy of the City of Corel however, she had had better luck. A three year programme there, and she'd danced in all the cities of the main continent, performed alongside many dancers not so accomplished as she.

Now, at twenty three, she was still dancing, though it had never been quite what she'd dreamt of as a child. Nobody screamed her name from the rafters, she did not have her picture embellished onto the billboards on City skyways. She was mentioned in the programmes, and yes, she was applauded. But at an age now where she was willing to accept the cards being dealt to her, she didn't mind so much. She managed a bar, and it paid the bills. It left enough over for her to feel secure, when the season was slow.

Tying her ribbons deftly, she rose to her feet, padding across the room towards the sound system. She had a little time until her partner would arrive-- enough time to try out the routine she had assembled in her mind. Listening to Vincent's solo piano concertos had inspired her; in the days following their encounter, she had bought more of his records. And there was one in particular she wanted to dance to.

He called it Love Theme… And it stirred something within her. Bass notes that seemed to disrupt her insides, unpicking her stitches, a drifting mournful, yes passionate melody that had her eyelids flickering shut at the first note, ankles at right angles to her body, knees slightly bent, hands flax, resting face up by her thighs.

Her three years of study had taught her classical ballet, as well as contemporary; an infusion of extreme balances, feats of endurance, speed, and flexibility. She could raise her legs to form a flawless, vertical line, her chest hugging her grounded thigh. She could balance her body weight on one pointed foot, one hand, even.

She employed which ever moves came into her mind as the music drifted over her. Back bends, spins, balances, Pointe…

"Starting without me?"

Her arms dropped to her sides, eyes springing open. Her dance partner was grinning from the doorway, his hand hovering near the light switch. She cleared her throat, crossing swiftly to the CD player to press 'stop'.

"I was just… experimenting." She shrugged, reaching back to scoop up her hair and fasten it tightly at the crown of her head with an elastic. She twisted it round into a tight bun, and fixed it with another. "You're early for a change, Cloud."

"Yeah, well…"

Her partner, Cloud, had graduated a year before her from the same Academy, though she was far more advanced than many of her fellow students, and had danced with him before in many productions, while the other girls looked on jealously. He was a fine example of the male form; tall and well built, arms capable of both amazing grace and profound strength. When his sturdy hands encircled her waist (almost completely too), she felt as though she were weightless; he could lift her above his head, her body arched gracefully, and his muscles would barely give a tremor to show the strain. His hair was unruly, when he did not oil it back for shows; a blonde shock of disorderly spikes, framing an almost angelic face, set with eyes of brilliant aquamarine.

"Are we just doing the solos?" She asked, tapping her left foot, hopping to her right, then again, watching her feet carefully as she did so.

"I think we nailed the first one, it's the lift one I'm concerned about. I think we should go from when it comes in with Adagio for Strings."

"I don't want to mess that up. It's a beautiful piece."

"Yeah…" He dragged his fingers through his hair idly, dropping to the ground to lace up his shoes. "Though I doubt anyone note worthy will be watching." He rolled his eyes, fingertips working to twine the elasticised ribbon around his ankle.

"You never know." She tapped her nose mid knee bend, focusing on the heat in her muscles. She had to be ready, or she could risk injury. She didn't need that to happen. "I'll set up the sound system."

Once the opening chords began, she took a few deep breaths through her nose, centring herself, her feet arranged one before the other in a parallel fashion, knees locked. Cloud faced her across the floor, adopting his opening stance; spine arched back, one leg stretched out, pointed toe, the other bent to centre him, opposite arm stretched behind him. Delicate fingertips. His expression was one of absolute focus.

With a sharp inhale, she lifted her body onto the tip on her toes, revelling in the exhilarating burn that travelled from her bent toes to her calves. Through the pain, she knew she could achieve perfection, and beauty. She reached Cloud, his hands reaching for her waist, ready to send her into the spin. Foot raised, bent knee facing outward, pressed heel first into the side of her opposite thigh, arms stretched to the ceiling, her weight on her toes. Brisk hands steadied her as the momentum of the spin threatened to unbalance her; he kept her steady, stilling her motion when her back was to him, forcing her body weight up, and under her ribs. She bent backwards, legs tightened into the pose she liked to call the flamingo, fingertips loose.

Her right foot touched the ground, point first; she centred her weight there, maintaining the posture the whole time.

It took only three run-throughs to realise that perhaps they needn't have worried so much; not one flaw was there in any step, any lift, or any twirl. She ejected the CD, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead. They scheduled another practice session for another evening next week, to ensure they were faultless, and she bid her partner good evening, exiting the studio with her satchel shouldered, shoes tucked away safely in her bag, calf muscles aching a little from the exertion.

But it felt good.

The studio was a ten minute walk from her apartment, and a fifteen minute walk from her bar. Tonight, she was meant to be working, though Angela, one of her other barmaids had agreed to cover to allow Tifa the time to practice. Deciding that to go home when they had finished a little earlier than expected would be a little cruel, she changed her path half way, ducking through a side street to reach the walkway that ran parallel to the one she had just left.

The stars were out tonight, she thought to herself, craning her neck to peer at the narrow strip of sky visible between the tall exterior walls of the buildings, stretching above either side of the alleyway. Costa Del Sol wasn't exactly isolated, though nor was it congested; on the clearest of nights, she was positive she had never seen a sky quite like it.

She passed out of the dark side street and onto the main boulevard which would take her to her bar, Seventh Heaven. Stupid Cliché name, though she couldn't really afford to change the sign outside, despite her income. So it had stuck.

Her shoes tapped dully on the concrete as she walked beneath the gently swishing boughs of the leaning palm trees that lined the walkway, listening to the distance drone of taxi cabs and other vehicles on the roads half a mile or so away from the sea front, though she could nearly pick out the gentle rushing of the waves over the sands up ahead. Her eyes wandering, she gazed out over the promenade; the far side of town was considerably richer than the tourist resort on the eastern quarter, where the beaches, and the bars were located.

She'd gazed upon many of the elegant and grand houses longingly before, and she wondered if one of those belonged to the musician she had met a few evenings ago. He mentioned something about inheriting a house not too far from her bar. Lights were on in many of the windows, just distant golden specks from where she was. She could see the farthest most house, right out on the point of the cliffs, where waves crashed relentlessly, day and night, and wondered who lived there.

It would be his concert soon; tomorrow evening, if she could recall the details she had seen on the poster that had been put up in the studio. She found herself wishing she could have gone, wondering, what might have happened if she had.

_Don't be such a fool Tifa_, she chastised herself. _Why would he look at you?_

She hitched her bag a little higher up her shoulder as she turned down the street that ran at a right angle to the main walkway. Her bar was not far from here…

"Hey lady!" A loud shout made her bolt out of her imaginings; she should have started walking faster, though instead she looked for the source of the voice. "What's in that bag of yours?" She found the owner of the voice; a middle aged man, wearing thick rimmed glasses and shabby clothing, with dirty blonde hair hanging lank about his slightly puffy face.

"Please leave me alone." She said firmly, turning to walk away from him. She released a frightened yelp as sharp fingers found her upper arm, bruising the flesh there instantly, turning her body around to face him. They were in the shadow of two street lights, and there didn't seem to be anyone around.

"I said--- what's in your bag." His breath wreaked of dead things, and alcohol. She noted rather faintly that he made making a point of showing her a jagged edged knife he help in his hand.

"I have no money with me-- only my dancing shoes, please let me go." She tried to keep her voice steady, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. The man started to laugh, his throat gurgling with spittle.

"A dancer, eh? Bet you're a pretty thing under that coat of yours…"

"Please-- take me to the bar up the road, I'll give you anything, just don't--"

"I don't want money!" He growled, his face drawing closer to hers. She tried to flinch away from him, though grasping fingers of his other hand found her chin, held her gaze. "I want you to shut up, and follow me quietly. If you do, I might not kill you afterwards."

Suddenly aware of her fate, she lashed out with the heel of her hand, slamming upwards, breaking his nose. A sharp stomp to the foot, and he had stumbled backwards, surprised, and free, she started to run, dropping her large bag on the ground. She could buy more dancing shoes; she wasn't going to let anything slow her down. Her feet pounded on concrete, as she tore down the promenade, unable to tell whether he was following her or not. She wasn't going to look back until she was inside the bar; There would be burly men inside most likely… if not a deterrent to her pursuer, surely one of them would save her…

Passing in and out of streetlamp's sphere's of amber glare, her heart pounding in her chest, she thought she could make out a figure up ahead. She couldn't see who it was, though her burning lungs managed to scream 'help!' between ragged breaths.

The shadow ahead started running at an incredible pace, reached her, overtook her, and she allowed herself to stop, tearing around to watch the fate of her would-be savoir. Her pursuer had been hot on her heels it seemed; though now he seemed to be… immobilised. The man who had him pinned to the wall of the closest building by his throat was currently shouting something, though over the blood pounding in her ears, she couldn't quite pick out the words. His voice may have been edged with fury unlike anything she had ever heard, she thought she could detect _something_…

"Vincent?" His shoulder's tensed, muscles stiffening at the call of his name. The attacker's face was slowly turning purple. "Don't… don't kill him…" She stuttered, verging on hyperventilating.

"It's all he deserves…" Vincent spat, releasing the man regardless, stepping back as he crumpled to the ground, grasping his throat.

"It's not… It's not worth it." Sinking slowly to the ground, she struggled to get her breath, her chest aching due to lactic acid build up. She heard stumbled steps as her attacker got to his feet, breaths almost as ragged as hers.

"Get out of my sight. If I ever see you again, I will kill you." He stood tall, fists clenched, watching as the man limped away. Only when he was satisfied that he was far enough away, did his fingers relax. He crouched at her side, placing a cool hand on her shoulder. "You are safe now."

"Oh my god, I thought… I thought he was going to-- to rape me."

"He most likely was." Vincent squinted into the distance. "You left your bag?"

"Um, yes. I dropped it. I didn't want to slow myself down."

"A wise choice. Are you hurt?" He inquired, standing, and offering her his hand. She swallowed, grasping it tightly as he heaved her to her feet. She almost collapsed against him, shoulders suddenly wracked by relieved sobs.

"I thought-- oh, thank you so much." She ducked her head. He stiffened a little, glancing around him.

"Where do you live?"

"Not far-- about 5 minutes." She dried her eyes on her sleeve, pointing vaguely behind her, reciting her address while he listened carefully.

"I will take you there."

She made all efforts to walk, though after about five steps it was clear to him she was too shaken to do so. Without asking, he hooked one arm behind her knees, the other threaded through her arms and around her back, he lifted her into his arms. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled into his jacket, rosy red lips parting gently as she breathed. Gritting his teeth, he marched down the promenade until he reached the spot where he bag lay abandoned, and untouched. Stooping to throw it over his shoulder, he continued on, using side streets and sparsely populated paths to reach his destination.

He scanned into her apartment building with her cardkey, hung on a strap about her neck along with her keys, and ascended four flights of stairs without a complaint, stopping before apartment number 4C. Kicking the door open, he found a pleasant living space, filled with bookshelves, a squashy sofa scattered with various cushions, and brightly coloured walls. Every surface was covered in neatly arranged photo frames, candles and an assortment of trinkets. He found himself smiling a little at the sight. Just as he would have expected.

Setting her down on the sofa, he realised that she had drifted into a troubled-looking sleep. A little searching, and he located a set of blankets, tossing them over her motionless form. He ensured her keys were on the table in plain sight, and that he at least left a light on for her, in the event that she should awaken, afraid and confused. Scribbling a note he then folded over a small envelope from the inside of his pocket, he readied himself to leave.

Stopping for a moment, he allowed himself to watch her as she breathed. Her hair was tied back into an orderly bun, which had somehow stayed so, throughout her encounter. He was rewarded with the sight of a graceful neck, delicate ears, and cheeks still ablush from the exertion. He could still smell her on his clothes, as he swept out of her living room, shutting the door behind him softly. Clean sweat, earthy, salty. Human.

He shook himself. What was he thinking? _She_ had warned him about this. He knew the risks. But he found himself willing to take them. If only she could have the luxury of such a choice.

He passed out into the night, becoming part of the shadows.

If only he'd had the choice, too.

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2am. Should probably stop writing. Yeah. I have.

If any of you have read Caffé Azzuro, then you might recognise a similar plot point. But I promise it won't go down that route. I' ve got a better idea. It's totally my own universe here. Tifa as a dancer, All the towns now Cities instead. I figured the population needed a boost; If you count all the people floating around, the human race would become extinct following any kind of geographical disaster. Not to mention inbreeding depression…

Anyway, thanks for reading, please stick with me on this.


	3. The Opera House

Ok, let's see if you were right. Please don't hate me!!! and Review-- I checked the story traffic, OI OI you hundred people! REVIEW!

I love moustaches!

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3. The Opera House

When she woke, she found herself unsure of how she had gotten home, suddenly unclear on which parts of last night had been real. What was Vincent doing there? What were the odds he would be there, at the right time and place, saving her life?

She scowled, swinging her legs around, planting her feet down on the floor. She was still wearing her sneakers, though a blanket or two had been thrown over her at some point. On the table, an envelope with her name written on it in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting caught her eye. A note rested on top, which she elected to read first.

_If you need to call me, I am always available. I hope you are well._

Beneath this was Vincent's name, and a number. She smiled a little to herself; what a way to get a guy's number. Susanna would never believe it… But she wouldn't have believe the quiet, sensitive musician capable of lifting a man who looked far heavier than himself from the ground, almost choking the life out of him. She thought that perhaps she had been dreaming; but the bruises that spattered her upper arm disproved that theory.

The envelope was stubborn, the paper apparently resistant to tearing, though she managed it eventually. Two tickets to his concert in two days time, on the closing night. She grinned behind her hand. This was getting less and less believable.

Her only dilemma now, was whether to ask Cloud, or Susanna.

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Susanna had been her final choice; turning up with another man would perhaps raise more questions than it answered, and she'd rather not have to explain that Cloud was like a brother to her. And she'd rather not have to ask Cloud to leave, in order to be alone with Vincent, should the opportunity arise. Susanna had already told her that if such should occur, she'd be gone quicker than Tifa could protest.

The Opera House was magnificent, located on the main, cultural street running through the heart of Costa Del Sol. Built from beige stone, said to have been chipped from the very cliffs the settlement had been established upon, it stood a magnificent fifteen or so stories high, she would have guessed, lit up with golden lights. She gazed up in awe on stepping out of the car; Susanna's brother had offered to drive them there; they could get a cab back together (or Susanna on her own, she had pointed out with a wink.)

Susanna complained about her heels giving her some discomfort, but Tifa was so used to aches and pains at her feet, that her pain threshold had perhaps been heightened. Her companion grumbled jealously as she stepped out onto the pavement gracefully, standing tall and elegant in slate grey satin, and the only pair of high heels she owned.

"Gods, I love you and all, but when you're stood next to me, I hate you." She grumbled, adjusting the fabric of her red backless dress. "You look like a damn princess in everything."

Tifa chuckled as they ascended the red-carpeted steps leading to the large glass doors, flanked by impressive suited doormen. "Even my pyjamas? That time you came over in the morning, I swear you were expecting I would be wearing a silk nightgown or something."

"Well, yeah. Stuff like that was made for girls like you." Susana rolled her eyes, tucking her purse under her arm, waiting for Tifa to show their tickets to the doorman. He bowed his head politely, opening the door for them.

They entered into a vast magnificent hallway, first of all struck by the size of the crystal chandelier that adorned the painted ceiling. The murals were of the standard kind in places like this; cherubs floating on clouds, saints and angels dotted across a clear blue sky, though they were still magnificent nonetheless. An impressive staircase flowed from the upper floor, carpeted in red, the balustrades polished mahogany. Congregated in various spots in the entranceway were suited men and well-dressed ladies. Some glanced up when they entered.

"Are we supposed to wait here?" Susanna took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, handing one to Tifa.

"I think so." She scanned the faces; nobody familiar jumped out at her.

"Will we see him?" Her companion's blue eyes danced as she smiled.

"I'm not too sure. He may be practising or something."

"Oh! There-- next to that man with the-- might I say, fetching moustache."

She followed Susanna's not-so-discrete pointing finger to a small group of people partially hidden by the ascending staircase, on the opposite side of the hallway. His hair, the colour of the raven's wing, seemed to scatter the light glinting from the crystals in the chandelier. As if he sensed her, his head turned, dark eyes set on her as she advanced towards him, Susanna's palm pushing her along at her lower back.

"I don't think we should--" she hissed through her teeth, trying her best to look at ease. "Hello." She concluded rather breathlessly.

"Tifa, Susanna." His voice cut through the babble of the rest. She was entranced by his face; pale skin so beautiful against the black of his suit, the crisp white of his shirt. Though by the stark red colour by his side, Tifa was diverted. Stood by his side was surely the most stunning woman Tifa had ever seen in her life.

Creamy ivory skin that seemed to _glow_, Golden hair, spun into perfect curls about her oval face. Pale blue eyes framed by full, dark lashes, and angular brows. Her lips were painted crimson to match her dress; a dress that revealed perfect, full breasts, a cinched waistline and killer hips. A split in the fabric at her knee revealed the barest hint of her thigh, her curved calves. She wore a fabulous pair of black heels that Tifa was sure she saw in a magazine a while ago. Tifa guessed that the old man with aforementioned fetching moustache-- and beads of perspiration on his forehead was perhaps a little surprised to be stood so near to something so flawless, so striking.

The woman's willowy arm was threaded through Vincent's, though she released him immediately to step forward and greet her.

She'd felt a stab of jealously, partly at her beauty, partly at her proximity to Vincent, but it dissipated almost instantly at the way she smiled; full of tenderness, as if she _knew_ her. As if she was meeting an old friend.

"Tifa-- I have heard much about you." Blue eyes glittered, flashing a perfect smile before she embraced her gently. "And Susanna? Lovely to meet you, fabulous dress." She'd heard so much about her? _When_? And what did he have to tell exactly?

"This is Scarlett." Vincent cleared his throat. "She is my colleague, an old friend, and a most accomplished cellist."

She gave a small, tinkling laugh, perfectly manicured hand fluttering at her throat. "Oh, the compliments are starting?" She turned to Tifa. "He was just saying that he thinks René Desquartes was perhaps a little deluded. What do you think?"

Tifa raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't know much about him. Save for his ideas were well within the limits of the time's constraints of knowledge."

Vincent hid his smile behind his hand, but she hadn't missed it. The old man chortled to himself.

"I see now why you like her, Vincent." Scarlett turned back towards her, delicate crinkles about her eyes as she smiled kindly. Tifa risked a glance at Vincent. He seemed unfazed by Scarlett's potentially awkward disclosure, though Tifa noted the way his lips thinned, how his knuckles whitened. "But I must show you to your booth. The show will begin soon, and I must finish preparing."

"That would be lovely, thank you." She thread her arm through Susanna's, who had remained silent and presumably watchful throughout the encounter, taking deliberate, slow steps towards the stairway. Susanna was getting used to her heels, it seemed.

Vincent was frowning slightly, remaining at the foot of the stairs, one hand in his pocket.

"Vincent made sure you were to attend," Scarlett said softly, as they ascended the staircase gradually.

"It was rather presumptuous of him to assume I would be available," Tifa laughed. "More often than not recently, my evenings are taken."

"What is it you do exactly?" The blonde woman turned her face, faultless features intent, awaiting her reply.

"Well, I own a bar. But I am, by nature a dancer." She told her, sipping her champagne self-consciously.

"May I ask what kind of dance?"

"Ballet." At this Scarlett's flawless smile widened. "Actually, I am performing soon, in a production. Perhaps Vincent could bring you along."

"I would enjoy that very much. When?" She leant forwards, awaiting her response.

"Monday through to Wednesday. Matinee performance." Scarlett's smile dropped from her angelic face.

"Oh, that's terrible. Vincent and I are… engaged most days. I do not think we will be able to attend." She came across so genuinely troubled that Tifa felt immediately responsible. "Alas, that is the way of the world. You tend to miss the things you look forward to the most." A fleeting second, and her elegant shoulders were slumped, no longer straight, her eyes full of a profound melancholy Tifa could not comprehend. But then it was gone, replaced so swiftly with that flawless smile, it might never have been there at all.

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The opera house was truly a sight to behold. The central room, headed by the stage of course, rose in a cavernous column, stretching all the way up to the ornate ceiling. Everything glimmered with gold; the gilding around each booth, the lamps that adorned the space between each window. Paintings in rose, ivory, beautiful colours in the renaissance style her mother had always been fond of. The stage was lit marvellously, the seats for each member of a twelve strong accompaniment string orchestra arranged in a arch to the far right of the stage. The left side was dominated by an immense Grand piano, lustrous black, polished to faultlessness.

Her stomach flipped with anticipation as she took her seat, directly overlooking the stage, with a great view of the piano. She and Susanna had fooled around with their opera glasses for a little while; playing 'spot the best moustache' with the other attendees seated below them. Though when the lights dimmed, she shifted forward in her seat, subdued and eager for what was to come.

The orchestra filed on, and it took her a moment to spot Scarlett; her red dress had been swapped in favour of the more conventional black. Though, peering through her opera glasses, she looked no less stunning. The congregation applauded politely, as they bowed, and then took their seats, readying their instruments. A man had come onto the stage to announce them, and now he was garbling on about the conductor, who seemed to be well known to those seated below, who again applauded.

When Vincent eventually graced the stage, giving a small ironic bow, Susanna whistled loudly. They almost collapsed from their seats giggling. Composing herself at last, Tifa wiped at her eyes, straightening her spine in her seat. This was what she had been waiting for, what she had actually found herself fantasising about in the day approaching this moment.

Seated at his piano, Vincent seemed to be the most natural she had ever seen him. Eyes closed, fingertips relaxed, poised over the keys, shoulders almost slumped as the violins opened the sequence with a heart melting chord. Their voice was joined by Scarlett's cello, and Tifa felt a stab in her heart at the beauty of her playing.

Then his harmony joined Scarlett's, sweeping fingertips dancing over ivory keys, and she was lost amongst the drifting melodies, swimming about one another, becoming one.

"I was doubtful about this, you know." Susanna whispered after a while, plucking a tissue out of her bag. "But this is amazing."

"I know," Tifa sniffed, ignoring her tears' cool presence on her cheeks.

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The after party was located in one of the back rooms of the opera house; A spacious hall with parquet floors, and painted ceilings in the fashion she had seen everywhere inside this building-- plus the seemingly standard crystal chandelier.

A porter had escorted them there; apparently their presence at the party for the closing night had been requested by Vincent. They were supplied with more champagne on entering, and out of lack of anything else to do, Susanna and Tifa drank their way through several before plucking up the courage to mingle; though a few of the rather spectacular facial hair specimens they had identified in their previous game were also in attendance, rendering them into fits of barely controlled giggling each time they talked themselves into it.

"Enjoying yourselves?" Vincent's fingertips ghosted at the small of her back as he moved around to stand beside her, fixing them both with a look of blatant disapproval, though she noted the glimmer in his diversely hued eyes.

"We were trying to mingle," Susanna set her fifth glass empty down, wiggling her fingertips as if to illustrate her protest of innocence. "But every time we do…"

"--We see a guy with a weird moustache." Tifa completed, hiding her chuckle behind her fingertips.

Vincent's lips, pulled into a thin line as he gave the room a swift once over, seemed to undergo a battle with themselves as he realised that they were making a valid point. "It has never occurred to me before; but you are right. There's even a handlebar over there. I haven't seen that in a long time."

Susanna and Tifa started to laugh all over again, clutching at each other for support. "Stop it, this is just stupid." Tifa wiped at her eyes. "Vincent, on a more serious note, excuse the pun, you played beautifully tonight. I thoroughly enjoyed it."

"I am glad." He gave a slight bow of his head. "I was worried you wouldn't have made it." Tifa widened her eyes, giving Susanna a discrete glance, so only Vincent couldn't see. She hadn't told Susanna about almost being attacked two nights previous. It saved answering lots of questions. He caught her look, and made no elaboration. "You never mentioned you were a dancer."

Susanna chuckled. "Yeah, cause you were in the bar all like 'I'm going to sweep in order a glass of wine and leave in a cloud of my own awesomeness'."

"Susanna!" Tifa giggled in spite of herself.

"How much champagne have you had?" He too laughed, glancing up as the ruby-clad figure of Scarlett arrived at the fringe of their small group.

"You know this party is for us and you're stood here laughing about moustaches." She gave a delicate wink. "We must circulate."

An hour or so later, Susanna had to excuse herself for the night, enveloping Tifa in a cloud of her perfume before she happily tripped out of the party, leaving Tifa momentarily alone with her thoughts. She stared at nothing in particular over the rim of her perpetually full champagne glass, starting a little when Vincent's breath caressed her neck.

"It's starting to thin out a little. Perhaps you would like to see the piano?" His bow tie had long ago been pulled loose, dangling around his neck, the top two buttons open. Perhaps not so fitting, but he could do whatever the hell he wanted. It was _his_ show after all.

"Oh, I'd like that very much." She set down her glass, aware that Scarlett was watching them leave, a most peculiar expression on her face; concerned, yet hopeful, almost. Out of the oppressive heat of the crowded room, the cool air of the backstage corridors kissed her skin. She rubbed at her arms; perhaps a backless, plunging dress of silk hadn't been such a good idea, though she found herself changing her mind when Vincent's heart-stopping gaze fell upon her once more.

"You look sensational this evening, by the way." he stopped by the gap in the curtains, from where she could see the piano, it's lustrous black finish reflecting the single stage lamp. It was deathly quiet, all sounds muffled by the thick drapes, the party far behind. She touched her fingertips to the tip of the curls about her face, fully aware she was blushing.

"Your bruises have faded rather quickly," he observed, acknowledging the shudder that the contact of his fingertips elicited from her.

"Thank you." Her arm raised, he paused to inspect it. "I never got the chance to thank you properly for that night. For saving my life… but I wonder…What were you doing near the bar that night, when I got attacked?"

"I felt that I had to be there." He said simply, stepping out of the shadows and under the stage lights. He looked beautiful; she could see every detail of his flawless features, every sparkle as the light caught his eyes. "I just… I knew. I knew you would need me."

"How?" She paused before taking a tentative step towards him, squinting a little in the light.

"When we met, I felt a connection between us."

"A connection? But we only spoke for a few minutes." She protested, though she knew it was true. She had felt it also.

"It was enough." He turned to her, and she was suddenly aware of how close he was. His eyes swept from her face, to her throat, and then back, eyes a little wide with barely suppressed fear. "I don't understand it. You were just a barmaid. I bought a drink, then left. simple. Yet I just knew I had to be at your bar that night."

She swallowed, her fingers clutched at her throat. "Well, I owe you my life."

"Don't be so prepared to offer it up." He intoned softly, tentatively bringing his fingertips up to her face, to sweep them gently across her cheek, finally resting his palm at her neck, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "There are those who would willingly take it away."

Her breath hitched in her throat, and for a moment she struggled to stay upright, gravity at battle with her sudden inertia. As if he knew, his free hand pressed into her lower back, exposed by the plunge reverse of her dress. Her chest constricted at the shock of his cool hands on her skin.

"W-won't they be missing you at the part-ty?" She whispered, unable to tear her eyes from his. They were bound irreversibly, reactive chemicals in a test tube whose destiny was simply to react with the other.

"They can wait." As he drew a little closer to her, she felt her eyelids threaten to close, her body aching to give in to his touch-- but she realised that even though he had saved her life, she didn't know him well enough for this-- for what he was intent on doing…

"No." Palms pressed to his chest, she gave a gentle push… as if he had been given a shock, Vincent's expression was no longer hazy, no longer pulling her in. He released her immediately, taking three steps away from her, his back turned, suddenly the epitome of agitation.

"If you were any wiser, you would stay away from me," He told her, hands shoved in his pockets. She almost didn't take him seriously for the moment, though when his heavy gaze descended upon her, the laugh died in her throat.

"Why?"

"Because you are… you have so much in store for you. Me? I am just a thirty five year old who only has his piano to live and love for." She observed in his face the same look of longing, of crushing sorrow that she had seen in Scarlett's earlier.

"That's the most ridiculous reasoning I have ever heard." He watched her shake her head, fists clenched loosely at her sides, her long hair flowing about her shoulders in effortless curls. "We don't know each other well enough. But maybe we could work on that."

He looked up from his shoes, one brow raised. "Is that truly what you wish?"

"Come on, I'm not going to beg you to take me on a date, but I would be likely to accept if you asked. I came here didn't I?"

He laughed then, all discomfort and duress lifted from his form. "Yes. You did."

"Well, then… Thursday, 7pm, I am rehearsing for the last time. I presume you won't be busy then?" At a shake of his head, she continued. "I will phone you with the address closer to the date."

She thanked him for inviting her to the concert, and bid him goodbye, striding elegantly off the stage by the front steps, her figure passing down the central aisle. Vincent watched her sweep out of the swinging doors, hands still in his pockets.

"You have allowed yourself to become lax, Vincent." Scarlett materialised at his side, a frown marring her perfect face. "I'm not entirely sure what you are doing."

"I don't know either. I think she is the only one who does."

"At least somebody is in control…"

"I couldn't do it. I let my hunger get in the way for one moment, but I couldn't bring myself to… She is too pure."

"There are few like her left." Scarlett agreed, still watching the doors, as if expecting Tifa to return any moment. "I could tell she was a dancer. Her curves, the way she holds herself, her _smell_…" Scarlett's pupils contracted slightly, her tongue pressed firmly against her teeth.

"You warned me about this. But I never knew it would be this hard…" He turned to face the woman before him, so unlike him to others, but exactly like him. She was bound to him, and him to her. "I didn't think I would ever…"

"I am here for you, my child." Her vice-like fingers, painted vermillion to match her lips, grasped at his collar, and before he could register that it _had_ been too long, his primal urges ran before his stream of thought, his teeth thoroughly embedded in the blonde's neck to feed. A tender moan passed those lips, her features tranquil with gratification, before she began to laugh.

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So there you go. Stephanie Meyer, Eat your heart out. Or artery, whatever.


	4. The Red Death

Just one thing to note before reading this chapter- This story is set in our world, though the cities in FF7 exist, Get it? Costa Del Sol is in Spain anyways, so that is where the other chapters were set. Hope you like this chapter, it was really fun to write.

Please review

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4. The Red Death

One hundred and sixteen years ago, Vincent Valentine was pretty sure nothing could go wrong for him. He worked for a bank, as an executive. He had made enough money to afford that house in the suburbs that his wife Lucia had been fond of, he could buy her all the pretty dresses she wanted, and he was pleased to tell anyone that would listen that he was to be a father soon.

He arrived home that evening, accustomed to the hum of the crickets that was the backdrop of this quiet Spanish neighbourhood, whistling an incessant tune as he hopped up the steps to the porch and opened the front door. From inside, he could smell the remnants of that evening's dinner, one he had reluctantly missed, and he could hear his wife playing the piano in the music room at the back of the house. Grinning to himself, he dropped his satchel by the front door, treading quietly towards the rear of the house, the swell of music growing louder. He was surprised she had managed to fit in front of the piano; of late, Lucia had been complaining of her sore back, of her immense belly getting in the way of her hands as she played. He had sincerely missed her playing; she was so accomplished, as her father had promised his, the night of their betrothal.

Seamus Valentine had been insistent that many girls were not good enough for his son, and as a result he had not married until his early twenties. Though when he had first laid eyes on Lucia, he had been glad of the delay, if his father's meticulous search had yielded such results. She was part Italian; her mother had been a hot-blooded, stunning woman in life, though her heart had failed her, so early in her daughter's childhood. Her hair was the colour of golden silk, her skin not as pale as the fashion of the time, though he found himself not caring. Her oval face, set with eyes of emerald green was beautiful enough to make up for that. She was petit, ample-chested, skilled at needle work and piano, and she was also an able singer.

Vincent had listened only partially to the list of things Lucia's father reeled off, leaving the rest to his father Seamus. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the girl. So tender at the age of eighteen, her slender hands folded in her lap, her hair and skin complemented perfectly by the rich ivory of her dress.

On his wedding night, she had been nervous, understandably. Though he was patient, and caring with her, whispering soothing words in her ear as he unlaced her bodice, kissing her golden skin softly until she had relaxed beneath him, pulled him closer to consummate their marriage in the she had been instructed to.

Her husband was good to her, and she soon came to love him; with his good natured face, his enthusiasm, his dark hair, so soft beneath her fingertips when she would soothe him after a hard day at work. He was ambitious, caring, and eager to please her; quite unlike some of her friend's husbands. They would tell her about their respective lives, on the day they came to tea in the week; how their husbands were demanding, sex-hungry, selfish men, who didn't really care about their wives' pleasure, about her wellbeing, her worries. Lucia would tell Elira and Sarah quietly that her husband was kind, and would take time to please her.

Needless to say they were jealous of her, and her attractive husband, who seemed to be doing so well at market, making money, highly placed contacts, and so well at making his wife happy.

It seemed to have worked a miracle though; after only eight months of marriage, she did not experience her monthly bleed. She had always been so regular with the cycling of the moon, and she hadn't stopped to consider that it may be as a result of her undying passion for her husband, and not any type of affliction as she first thought it to be-- the doctor was pleased to inform her she was with child. Vincent had been ecstatic, sweeping her tiny body into his arms and kissing her delicate face.

Now seven months on, the doctor was visiting almost weekly, to check how she was doing. The baby seemed healthy, kicking away inside her swollen belly, often keeping her awake at night. But she didn't mind so much. Vincent was working extra hard, leaving earlier every morning and coming home later-- he was sorry for being away so much, but he wanted to take time off, when his child arrived, be there in everyway possible.

None of her friend's husbands were devoted enough to do something like that.

He held his breath at the other side of the door, as the music on the piano suddenly stopped with a jam of the keys; a horrid, stochastic sound. He waited, listening out for movement. There was nothing.

He pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

The piano seat was empty, music books scattered about it randomly, pages shredded and torn. Had she had a particularly violent mood swing again? The cook had said she's broken a bowl last week, he recalled with a tender chuckle. There were ways he could ease her tensions…

The large doors overlooking the garden was open, the hot evening breeze toying with the drapes. He frowned. Where was Lucia? Surely she couldn't move that fast? He considered going back inside to find a knife… he was getting a bad feeling all of a sudden. Lucia loved her music books. She wouldn't just toss them aside, destroy them without a thought like that…

"Lucia?" He called loudly, scanning the room as if he had missed something somehow. There was nowhere for anyone to hide, let alone a heavily pregnant young woman. He was starting to worry now.

He strode into the kitchen, unhooking a large meat knife from its place hanging on the wall, then hurrying to search the ground floor. The place seemed empty, no further disturbances to indicate anything was amiss at all. He paused at the foot of the stairs, ears strained for any sounds. He thought he heard a creak, somewhere close to his and Lucia's room… and the nursery.

He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering with stealth. If anyone were inside, they would already know he was here. They'd ran out of the back doors, he thought suddenly with a shudder. They had been playing Lucia's favourite piece…

The nursery door stood open, a weak shaft of light crossing the carpeted floor from the lanterns lit in the hallway. He found it empty, the mobile swinging gently in an invisible breeze. His arms were raised in goosebumps.

He exited out into the hallway again, shutting the door behind him. Then he heard it. Drip, drip, drip… an incessant rhythm, the drum of water dripping into water. Had she been taking a bath all this time? But then who had been playing the piano? Had it been a servant perhaps, running because they were frightened of being caught?

He realised as he entered their bedroom that that idea had been fanciful. The sheets that were normally tugged so taught and neat over the pillows had been torn, tossed and strewn across the room, the feathers in the pillows dotting every surface, a few floating on the air at the disturbance of the door opening. His nostrils were accosted by the rich, metallic scent of blood.

His heart in his mouth, he pushed open the bathroom door, the slow creak of the hinged unnecessarily loud in the still evening… The knife fell to the floor with a clatter at his feet, splashing in the rusted water that spilled over the bath and onto the tiles.

One hundred and sixteen years later, Vincent jolts awake, his bare chest gleaming with sweat. It was a nightmare that had plagued him for over a century, since that day. They day to change all days for the rest of time.

His wife, his beautiful wife, lay butchered, bloody, and dead in the bath. Desperately, he'd pulled her naked sodden body free, screaming her name, holding her to him, begging her to come back to him. But it was too late. He had been too late. His wife, and his unborn baby were dead.

The authorities hadn't understood it. Apparently, she'd been with her lady friends until the early evening. The housemaid had left not an hour before, in good spirits and health. They'd even considered him as a suspect, but that had not lasted. It was clear that he was very much in love with his wife. Everybody vouched for that. He had lived and breathed for her, worked hard every day (and sometimes many nights) to ensure she had everything she wanted.

Vincent had spend many years living in a haze after that day. He'd stopped working at the bank. He'd sold the house, after cleaning all the blood from the walls. The only thing he kept, was her piano. It had been his wedding gift to her. He could still remember the joy on her face when she had walked into that room for the first time and laid her beautiful emerald eyes upon the lustrous wood, traced her fingertips over the keys. She had whispered thanks to him in all the languages she knew, which for her age, were many.

It had been the one thing he had kept with him, after all those years, aside from a few letters she had written him, and some books. For another eight years, he simply existed. His father, in his final years of life, had begged him to remarry. But he couldn't. He could never hope to love another. At least, he couldn't imagine it. Not when every waking moment as well as his dreams were plagued by her spectre, her silent, bloodless face, his lips parted, her eyes full of questions.

She would mumble, _amore per la mia memoria, amore per la mia memoria,__amore per la mia memoria…_ and for many years he never knew what she meant. Until fifty years on, after living one of Italy's many metropolises for a time, he had learned language from his companions. _Love for our son, love for my memory._

_Se soltanto potessi, Lucia dolce, se soltanto_, he would whisper. _If only I could, sweet Lucia. If only._

_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _

Scarlett, or at least, as she was known now, had had many names. from the far east, to the Americas, to her current residence on Europe. They called her A vörös halál, Красная смерть, La morte rossa… all meaning The Red Death.

The daughter of a colonist, Scarlett had never wanted for anything. Ivory skinned, as fair as the morning, with crystal blue eyes, she attracted many stares even before she had become of age. Scarlett Elisabeth Hoster as she was, had her pick of men. And that hadn't changed, almost four hundred years later.

How she came to be one with the shadows, didn't matter. She transcended the constraints of time, of any limit she could name, save for that her days under the sun were over. Bitter, and angry at first, she had gone into a rage that has lasted almost as long as several civil wars. She killed without mercy, hunted rich and poor alike, no discrimination. She had been cruelly snatched from a life she had loved; surrounded by riches, by beautiful clothes, jewellery, wine. She had been promised the world by her father. But that had all been taken away.

It seemed that when she paused to take a rugged breath, two hundred years had passed. Her bloodlust had been etched into the memories of living men across many continents. They feared her name, though not her face. Her face was far from fearful, when she wanted it to be.

She had been wandering through a colonial town in southern Spain, searching for a man she had heard was butchering Italian-born women in this area. In recent centuries, she had turned to use her immeasurable strength for better purposes. As the world changed around her, she realised she too, must evolve.

That was when she had found him. She should have known this was the work of a vampire like herself. His eyes had lit up on seeing her; fair, beautiful, dressed in white linen. Perhaps he had taken her for a mortal. He'd tried to take her by surprise, leaping from the river's edge, arms outstretched, his fangs bared. But she was older, faster; she had him pinned to the ground beneath her, her vice-like fingers about his throat.

"Hm, Varys. I should have killed you when we met last century."

"I wouldn't want to stain your dress." He gurgled, laughing even as her hand clamped tighter around his throat.

"Some things are worth it." She spat, gripping the side of his head and twisting ferociously. His brainstem disconnected from his spinal cord, he was as good as dead. But she wanted to make sure. Tearing limb from limb, she piled them up, and set fire to the remains. If any evidence remained, by morning, any trace of the bastard would be gone. Burned up by the cleansing, forgiving rays of the sun. By then she would be long gone.

. . . . . . . . .

The locals said he was a recluse; he had found his wife dead, butchered, her unborn child also dead within her womb. It had made her sick to the stomach. But she'd been curious. The women here had desperately tried to get his attention. His house hadn't been too difficult to find; she followed the mournful sounds of piano song, drifting on the still-warm breeze of the summer evening. She inhaled. The smell of parched grass could almost trick her into thinking she was lying under the heat of the sun.

His porch door was open, and she had slipped in, listening to his song. They said for eight years, he had playing nothing else. Though he played it so well, she thought, her body suddenly weighed down by the grief swimming in the music.

"What are you doing in my house?" He had stopped playing, turned in his seat, staring at her with wide, terrified eyes.

"I have come to tell you that I have avenged your wife." She found herself saying, drawn in by those eyes; green, flecked with brown, hints of gold, and flashes of ruby. He was pale, though not like she, with beautiful black hair, and sensitive fingers. His face held emotions that she could not comprehend. She was entranced by him.

He rose slowly, his fingertips trembling as he grasped the piano for support. The ivory keys tinkled innocently in the upper octaves. He took in her blood soaked and torn dress, her dirty hands, blackened by the ash. "I… who?"

"His name was Varys. I have been hunting him for some time."

"Hunting? What are you?"

"I am what you will. The call me The Red Death," She threw back her head and laughed as his eyes widened, knuckles whitening. No doubt he knew that name.

"The Red Death? But that is an old tale."

"I am old, Vincent."

"How do you…"

"I came looking for you." She crossed the room faster than he could register; she was stood right before him, staring hard at him with eerie blue eyes. "I wanted to know why the women here are so intrigued by you." When his gaze did not waver, she frowned. Most mortals she fixed with her gaze were rendered immobile, weapons or objects of her will.

"I think you should leave." Though he seemed resistant to her.

"I don't take well to orders." She said, all pleasantries gone from her voice. "I came here because I am looking for a companion. And I think I have found him."

Before he could protest, before he even had the time to assemble an expression of terror, she had executed a swift and heavy blow to the side of his neck, knocking him unconscious instantly. She caught him before he could hit the ground, lifting his body effortlessly into her arms before taking off into the night.

The people of that village said he was so near to being a ghost, that that night he had simply vanished on the wind, to rejoin his wife in the afterlife. His music came no more, but no more women were slaughtered at night ever again. It was said his vengeful spirit had chased the murderer down, and delivered retribution. There they still pray for him to protect would-be-mothers from the jealous spirits of the night.

But of course, he was no spirit. He was very much alive, in one sense of the word.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The world shifted in and out of focus. He could have been sleeping for years. All he knew for a time, was a sharp pain in his neck, then a warm fluid being poured onto his lips. He drank it, unable to taste it; it warmed him, it gave him strength. After an unknown time of this, the liquid on his lips came again, but this time, he hungered for it. He needed more, whatever it was. He grasped, found something warm.

"There, that's better." Came a soothing female voice. Then the source of that liquid, that warm, delicious fluid that burned through his dead veins was there, at his mouth. He couldn't get enough, fast enough. "You like that, don't you? Drink, my child. Drink, Vincent. We are bound by blood, we are sister and brother. I created you, my son now, my Vincent." He held fast onto the wrist, teeth tearing fresh holes in the flesh, sobbing as he did so.

For he knew what he had become.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Well, That was FUN to write! Review please!


	5. In The Bell Tower

I had a request for more dancing-- people seemed to enjoy that aspect of it, so I deliver to you, more dancing! I hope you like this chapter, it's more battling with internal demons bla bla. You know the drill. Please leave me a helpful review!

5. The Bell Tower

Tifa dashed out of the bar as soon as the clock hit Six. She turned her back to the setting sun as she made her way along the promenade, her jacket tossed over her arm. She had little need of it; the sun warmed her back, the warm breeze weaving through the waves of her hair, tossed over her shoulders. She'd wanted to set off before dark at least, lest there be a repeat of last time. Connection or no, she couldn't count on him to be there at the snap of her fingers if she ever got into trouble. Surely Cloud or Vincent would walk her home later on. If she would end up at home that is.

They'd not planned a date specifically; she'd hardly count him coming to watch her dance with another man a date. But she couldn't help but feel the swell of anticipation in her chest for what might come later.

Cloud was there already, doing some stretches to a pop song blasting out of the radio. "I hope you don't mind a little company tonight," She told him, tossing down her bag and throwing herself onto the floor to tug off her sneakers. He frowned at her as she started to lace up her dance shoes.

"Company?"

"Yeah. That pianist I told you about? And a Cellist from the orchestra. I think you'll like her. Even I find her sexy, and I'm well… I like men!" Tifa giggled, hauling herself to her feet and crossing to Cloud's side, beginning her own stretches, tugging her muscles taut so they would become looser, less prone to accidental strain.

"Hm… Well, if she is really hot, I'll let you off. Are you trying to impress him or something?" Cloud awaited her reply, azure eyes trained on her face, executing a series of leg bends, using the bars for support.

"Well, not really. It was Scarlett who wanted to watch the concert. She's busy or something…"

"And this, uh, Vincent guy is just tagging along is he?"

"I invited him, alright? Gee, Cloud."

"I just wanted to make sure I knew what to expect," he raised his hands in defence. "So I know not to grope you or anything. Or maybe I should, that way he might declare his love for you…"

"Funny, Cloud, real. Funny." She scowled at him as she dipped her spine into a forward bend, hooking her fingertips under her toes. She watched the opposite wall, the world now upside down, her gaze drifting to the window. The sky had faded almost completely now.

She had called him, as promised, with the address of the dance studio. He said he would be there around six thirty. A glance at the clock told her that was ten minutes from now.

Moving onto her leg stretches and her foot exercises, she didn't notice another twenty minutes had slipped by, until Cloud poked her in the ribs to alert her to her guests' arrival. Scarlett looked radiant, even in jeans, Vincent dressed in dark colours, black hair just as attractive as usual, getting into his eyes.

Scarlett seemed taken with Cloud for a moment, and at this, Vincent gave a delicate roll of his eyes. "Sorry we are late. Scarlett wanted to make sure she was dressed appropriately."

"Well I appreciate the effort." Tifa chuckled, balancing on one leg and puling the other up behind her back, stretching the tops of her thighs. "We weren't quite ready anyway."

Tifa took the time to dim the lights a little, to give a more intimate feel to this otherwise normal rehearsal. She had even thought to bring the floaty dancing skirt she had been given for the performance in a day's time; a deep blue gauze type fabric that drifted with each movement she made, worn over her black cap-sleeved leotard. Her hair was tied into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She'd even thought to apply a little makeup. Just a little.

She popped her shoulders, before she nodded to Cloud, stationed at the sound system. Scarlett and Vincent settled in the seats to the right wing of the room, she just had to pretend she didn't see them. It was just another practice session…

The gentle harp opening Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus washed over her and she knew nothing else. It became part of what fuelled her, what kept her breathing, her heart pumping. As she moved, it was like second nature, her arms arching gracefully through the air above her head, fingers pointed delicately, her neck straight.

Neoclassical ballet was all well and good, but the pieces they were performing was a mixture of that, as well as contemporary. She loved it, yes, but dancing to the trilling, happy tunes that often accompanied the oldest classical ballets wasn't near as exciting as dancing so something on a different level: Adagio for Strings, Lisbeth Scott, Vaughan Williams… Pieces like that overwhelmed her, made her limbs pliant, her body an instrument of beauty.

She crossed the room on the tips of her toes, her arms tucked into her body, then as she reached Cloud, she became airborne for a moment before his deft hands caught her; one hand under her stomach, the other at her thigh. She was a bird in flight, as he revolved once, twice, set her down, dexterous limbs able to take her weight. He dropped to one knee, and she used him as a ladder, clambering to his shoulders, balancing her hands there and with a staggering amount of abdominal strength plus the additional support of Cloud's grip at her elbows, she raised her body almost completely upright. Then she was falling through air again, caught, spun, reclined…

Her dance partner's grip was a little tighter than usual tonight, she thought, as after one life his grip had left an after burn at her waist. She continued on, the incident worth little concern, revolving on the point of her left foot, before dipping her body, arms spread wide, her right leg arched gracefully behind her.

Cloud looked magnificent. The tight black fabric of his shirt revealed the powerful musculature of his arms, his thighs tensing as he executed perfect scissor kicks, landing before her on one knee, a delicate hand reached out for her. She turned her back, a half turn on the point of her toes, arching her body back, her fingertips catching her raised foot. Then a spin, Cloud's palm grazing her ribs and her lower back as he steadied her, then the lift, her arms and head arched back, her toes pointed.

Perfectly executed spins, toes pointed, then she was tripping backwards en Pointe…

Then into the next three pieces, not one mistake, each breath taken at precisely the right moment. When she'd stopped dancing, In her final position, down on one knee, her arms raised, she could hear one person start clapping. Glancing up through her tumbles of hair, she could see Scarlett on her feet, her face unreadable in the semi-darkness, under the purple tinted light. She glanced to Scarlett's left, where Vincent sat with his head in his hands, a suspicious tremor in his shoulders.

She felt a twinge in her chest.

She embraced Cloud swiftly, slapping him on the shoulder, she told him she would see him tomorrow for one last warm up before the real thing. He shoved her playfully back. "We'd better not mess up. Or break a toe."

"Don't jinx it." She warned, working a kink out of her neck. "Now get out of here. I will see you tomorrow."

When Scarlett reached her side, she took her face into her pale, perfect hands and kissed her gently on each cheek. "I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Thank you for sharing that with us." Tifa thanked her for her kind words, watching the blonde as she walked out of the studio, her hand coming up to touch her face as if to wipe away a stray tear.

"Vincent?" She called tentatively, padding across the room in her dancing shoes. He was still, his head still lowered. "Was I that bad to watch?" she gave a tentative chuckle, before reaching out to lift his face to look at her. His cheeks were glistening, dampening her fingertips.

"I would like to show you something, if that's alright with you."

"Of course, Vincent." He rose to his feet, taking hold of her small hands in his. He stared at her, his gaze heavy with things unspoken. She could only stare back, lost in his eyes. Only when he tore himself away, was she able to move.

. . . . . . . . . . .

She had donned her more practical sneakers, tossing her bag into the doorway of her bar, before giving her confused looking barmaids a salute. She had told them she would be engaged all evening, after all.

She followed him down streets she had never been down, enjoying the cooler air on her skin, still heated from dancing. He said nothing, still apparently lost for words to describe whatever it was he was thinking or feeling. Eventually, he came to a stop, outside what she knew to be the oldest church in the town; a long flowery Spanish name, she couldn't recall. it was stunning from the outside; several spires, elaborate stained glass windows; though it seemed to be undergoing some construction work-- most of its external façade was obliterated by scaffolding.

He took her hand, the barest ghost of a smile gracing his lips, before he led her across the tiny graveyard that preceded its front entrance, and down the side alley. He stopped by the foot of an iron ladder, gesturing for her to go first, his hand at her lower back urging her on when she protested.

She climbed several of these ladders, all the while never sure what he was doing. When they reached the top, over a hundred foot up she would have guessed, he took her by the hand again and led her to a gap in the brick wall.

"This used to be the old bell tower," He said at last, his voice barely a murmur. He warned her to duck her head as they passed into a gloomy, loft like space, with creaky wooden floors. She could hear the soft purr-like coo of doves roosting in the gaps in the stone.

"Are we in the roof?" She asked, ducking to avoid a low beam. It stank of rotting wood and damp, though she could hear people talking beneath her. "Vincent, why are we up here?"

He turned aside wearing a delicate and knowing smile, setting down a lit candle on a little ledge, not answering her questions. When she reached him, she turned to look where he was facing. The floor simply fell away, as if it had been removed, and below her she could see the magnificent interior of the church; all gilded walls and fantastic religious portraits of the Virgin Mary, holding her baby, or of saints and Jesus' disciples. The pews were mostly in shadow, though she could sense people moving around below, their shadows long and wavering in the light of many candles.

And then, a multitude of voices started to sing. She's never heard anything like it in her life; in a language she couldn't identify, the voices drifted over one another, bass vocals, sopranos, achieving a harmony her body succumbed to. She seated herself, closing her eyes, listening to the marvellous acoustics of the immense hall, the voices bounding from ancient stones, as if singing with many other voices beside their own.

"This piece is called Nocturnes." He told her, seating himself by her side, a serene smile on her face.

"This is amazing, how did you find this?"

"Like most things in life, the best things are found by chance. Pure accident."

She closed her eyes, concentrating on each note as it washed over her body. It were as if a thousand feathers brushed at her bare skin; she was awash with shivers, her very core alive with the music. At Vincent's gentle fingertips on her shoulder, she felt the first tear slide down her cheek, warm, and unhindered.

The music seemed to connect within her; she thought of her parents, of how angry she had been with them, prior to their death. They'd told her she shouldn't spend so much time dancing. She shouldn't spend so much time with the boys of her town either; she would do better to concentrate on her books. Furious, she had grabbed her dancing shoes, more out of instinct than need and left the house without saying goodbye. That had been the last time she had seen them alive.

She thought of her struggle to get where she wanted in life; and now that she had gotten there, how unlike it was to what she had dreamt about. She was still alone, had still never truly found love. And she was twenty three, running a bar, with no living relatives left to tie her to any place on the globe.

He watched her face as she listened, taken rather suddenly by the urge to tenderly brush aside the tears that marred her cheeks. She still wore her dancing skirts, now pooled about her as she sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her chin resting there. Her skin illuminated by the delicate glow of candle light, he was sure he'd never seen anything so beautiful in a long time. Why had she stirred him from his century of slumber? Why had she chosen him?

"I like to come here to think. The music reminds me of my wife, Lucia. She was so fond of choirs, and concerts."

"I'm sorry, what?" Wife? She turned to him abruptly, a gentle frown creasing her brow.

"My wife died… nine years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know." She reached for his hand, and he offered it to her hesitantly.

"It's alright. I wanted to share this with you."

"Thank you, really. It's… one of the most spontaneous things I have ever done," She chuckled lightly, gently brushing at her tears with the tips of her fingers. "And this is by far the most romantic first date, too."

He gave a delicate laugh, resting his head back against the wall, his eyes closed, fingers still laced between hers.

The choir paused in their song, then gently fading into the next part of the song, almost religious like, a dirge, a hymn, a prayer to god all in one. Though performed entirely by vocals, she was positive it was the most beautiful thing she'd heard. The voices of the sopranos pierced her bones, striking the chords in her heart. Her body was aflame, her mind soothed.

"You danced magnificently tonight," his lips were at her ear. "You were a moving piece of art."

"I didn't intend to upset you." She smiled up at him, gazing wonderingly into his face, drinking in the open expression he wore. His gentle smile, warming her from the inside.

"Your heart fuelled each step. It was impossible not to be moved by your exemplary beauty. I can only apologise that I will miss your true performance."

"I don't mind. I know that if it were possible for you to make it, you would."

Their gazes ever locked, the swell of the choir's music surrounded them in all its brimming magnificence, as they shared this experience; the world's best kept secret, locking and entwining their fates. She'd known it when she'd first met him, that he was different to all the other men she'd met. He seemed to carry an unbearable burden, one she could not comprehend He was intelligent, intense, his mere presence overbearing enough to send her breathless, if she let it.

Feeling a tug at her wrist, she glanced up from her thoughts, watching as he raised her hand palm first to the delicate swell of his lips. There he kissed it gently, moving deliberately towards her pulse point, where his warm breath sent a tremor along her arm and down her spine. He inhaled her scent deeply, barely able to shake it from his mind. Scarlett had been right. There were few who appealed so strongly to him, like she did. It was his affection, his affliction for her, that prevented him from tasting her, there and then.

Her fingertips curled around, caressing his cheek as his lips traced the curvature of her forearm. He had shifted his body behind her now, gently tracing his hands up her bare arms, to rest at her shoulders, sweeping the near-ebony curtain of her hair aside, fingertips brushing her throat.

"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"

The blush crept to her cheeks, the blood surging beneath his hands. "No. Never."

He only smiled, revelling in her scent; the metallic scent of blood may smell all the same to humans, but not to him-- hers possessed a certain clarity, it sang to him about her personality, her very being. He knew her to be pure, untainted. Something he did not deserve to be touching. A creature so wonderful it had reduced him to a whimpering mess. No woman had done that to him in so many decades…

Not since Lucia had told him she loved him for the first time, or since the day she had told him, _Vincent, you are to be a father_, with that funny little accent of hers. Her face, so young, flawless and innocent had been so earnest, placing her delicate hands in his, silver tears etching their way down her oval face. The stone angel that topped her headstone had worn a serene expression; over the decades of rainfall and the battering of winds, her face had long been eroded. Though Vincent's memory of Lucia remained untainted. Clear.

_Amore per la mia memoria, amore per la mia memoria, amore per la mia memoria…_

"Vincent?" She had turned, his hands cool and still at her neck. "Are you alright?"

"Perhaps it would be best not to linger too long." He released her, rising to his feet and crossing to the walls where the doves roosted. He reached out his hand, allowing one of them to grip onto his hand. "I would not wish to keep you." The bird almost purred as he stroked its pure white feathers.

"I get the feeling you have suddenly changed your mind about something…" She approached him, watching the bird with wonder. "Vincent?"

He opened his palm, and the bird fluttered free, returning to its roost. "I apologise. I… I have many things on my mind."

"I understand." She lowered her head, picking at her fingers. "I should probably get some sleep. I have a long day ahead of me."

"I shall take you home."

He assisted her down the multitude of ladders, turning his back to the church where the haunting dirge of the choir could still be heard, sounding out their song into the night. Tifa looked back more than once, an expression of longing etched into her face. Her brow was creased with worry, though she said nothing else, conscious of her companion's yet heavier silence.

He left her at her door, cupping her face delicately with one hand, running his thumb gently over the swell of her lips. With a deep, profound sigh, he let his hand drop to his side, before turning and striding away into the night.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A/N: someone mentioned being confused about Scarlett's intentions with Vincent; don't worry. It shall be explained. It's meant to be ambiguous!


	6. The Last Dance

You see her, you can't touch her  
You hear her, you can't hold her  
You want her, you can't have her  
You want to, but she won't let you

-- _Franz Ferdinand, Auf Asche_

6. The Last Dance

Scarlett had been so sure he would come around eventually. But after three decades, she was growing tired of trying to persuade him. He was a vampire, she would sigh, and it was high time he started to act like one. In response to her, he would only shaking his head, and say that he did not wish to be a monster too.

Vincent would not take blood from a human. He showed no interest in keeping himself alive; Scarlett had assumed that he would cave in eventually-- all new borns did in the end. But not he. He'd passed out, his body trembling with hunger-induced convulsions, before she'd realised that he was serious about it. He wanted to die. He had wanted it, even before she had turned him, before she had shown him what the world could offer him. Now that he was a creature, confined only to shadows of night, destined to feed from innocents for the rest of time, he didn't seem to have any reason to want to remain on the Earth.

She'd stayed by his side through the cycles of the moon, promising him that it didn't have to be like this. She could help him, she could be there for him.

"But I don't even know who you are," whispered words from cracked lips.

"I am all you have now, Vincent."

Unable to die, only doomed to fall into a coma until the moment blood were to touch his lips, he conceded, taking it from her wrist as he had on his first days of waking. He didn't know exactly how long ago that was-- Time held no relevance to him, now. She promised him that they would only hunt those who deserved it; men who haunted the shadows, though arguably for more sinister reasons than they. He had no other choice. They were the ones who chose to pollute the towns, to make those who lived there fear to tread the streets at night. Though as always, there were those who did, and those who paid.

After his first taste of human, a one-time-murderer who had been waiting for some unsuspecting female to wander across his path, Vincent developed a certain pallet for it. Scarlett would feed with him, more out of obligation, than her choice; though her chosen prey was more… pleasant to him, should he feed from her. She would use her beauty, her charms to entice young, attractive men, and even sometimes females to their home, where she would seduce them, feed from them, take pleasure from them.

Vincent had been wary, though on observation, no harm appeared to come to them; they always walked away hours later. If fact, Scarlett assured him, many did not even know they had been bitten. When making love, She had told him, pain sometimes crossed into the realm of pleasure… But he didn't care about that. He had no interest in sex. He'd seen the looks women would give him, were he to be seen in public with Scarlett on his arm for reassurance. If they knew the truth, if they knew what he was… They wouldn't hesitate to break the leg from a chair and impale in through his chest… or at least try. Scarlett told him many had tried to do so to her before, but had failed. Her strength, as well as her beauty, was unmatched.

He'd lived most of his century lamenting the loss of his humanity, his wife and child long since turned to ash, Scarlett his only companion. He'd resented her for enough of that century too, though she had loved him unconditionally, the son, the brother she had never had, she told him. She could have wanted more from him, he had thought more than once, though she was perhaps too in love with him to take it. Now, she spent her time trying to find the love she'd never managed to find.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

For Tifa, the end was in sight; The final performance of the three shows. Her feet were close to being crippled, though she knew she'd make it through one more before hunching over them with a cold pack and stuffing her face with chocolate. Training for this role, she had shed a few pounds. Being painfully thin reminded her too much of her mother; she'd been a manic depressive for the most part of Tifa's childhood, and had at times, barely eaten. Her temper had been short, easy to inflame. The strain had shown in her father's face, too. It couldn't have been easy dealing with a wife like her mother had been, and a hormonal, angry teenager, who didn't know what she wanted from life.

And she still didn't have a clue, any direction. Yes, she had always wanted to dance, and dance she did. Not for the biggest stages, for the largest audiences, but it was paid work at the end of the day. She'd wanted to travel, but had lost her confidence with her parent's deaths, never had anyone to go with. Susanna had offered, but of course, but Tifa had politely declined. she had obligations-- running the bar. She couldn't leave Costa Del Sol yet.

Seated before the mirror in her dressing room, Tifa gave her appearance a final once over. Hair fixed tightly at the nape of her neck, no stray strands to speak of thanks to the masses of hairspray the stylist had applied. Her makeup was most more garish than she would have liked, but it was for the stage. Red lipstick, dark eyes; it helped members of the audience who were perhaps further back to pick out her facial expressions when she danced. She pressed her palm flat to her stomach, cinched in by the bodice, the colour of a glacier, glistening and sparkling as the light caught each sequin. Her feet were tightly bound in her white ballet shoes.

A tap on her door brought her to her senses.

It was time.

Cloud was just as handsome as she remembered from the previous two performances. He looked like a prince, plucked from the pages of a fairytale, even in the gloom of the offstage lighting. Currently stretching the tops of his thigh muscles, he didn't notice her approach, intent on peering through the gap at those seated on the front row.

"What're you looking at?" She whispered, touching his shoulder to alert him to her presence.

"Oh, just… I recognised someone." He shrugged, turning to face her. He was trying to be casual, perhaps for her benefit as well as his.

"Who?" Her hands on her hips, she fixed him with a stern stare.

"Just some critics, and… somebody from the Nibelheim board of Dance!"

"I told you they'd be looking for you!" She tapped her nose, her face splitting into a wide grin. It had been Cloud's dream for as long as she had known him, to dance at the world class Nibelheim academy, in Russia-- and she'd never met anyone who she felt deserved it more.

"Well, whatever they're here for, it's just another day." He rolled out the kinks in his neck. "We go out, we dance, and then we can breathe again."

"I'll second that."

A stage hand rushed to their side, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. "--5 minutes!"

"Ok." Cloud turned to her as the stage hand bustled away to inform the chorus, aware of the burst of applause beyond the curtains as the orchestra were welcomed on stage. "Just dance like you always do."

"Like I always do?"

"Perfectly." He squeezed her shoulder, before turning and walking around the back of the curtains, to enter on the other side of the stage. she waited until she could make out his shadow again, on the other side, before steadying her breathing. She had to be perfect, not to ruin Cloud's chances.

And then she could breathe again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The orchestra weaved the music seamlessly, not a single stitch dropped. And-- Tifa would be pleased to say-- their dancing had been equally flawless. Cloud was on top form, muscles working in perfect synchrony to execute the most complicated twists, kicks, and spins. The concert hall was a down-scaled version of the Old Spanish Opera House that Vincent had performed in, though at the tumultuous applause, it could have been a stadium. She knew they were applauding for him. Giving their final bows before the last curtain fall, Tifa raised her arms towards him, and the audience cheered for him.

A furtive glance downwards confirmed that he also had the applause of the Russian critic, his notebook tucked beneath his arm, stern face for once relaxed into an appreciative smile.

Offstage, the production team, the chorus, and the management were there to clap them on the back, congratulating them on making it through three faultless performances. As elated as she was, the adrenalin still thudding through her veins, she wanted nothing more than to retreat to her dressing room and get out of this infernal dress. She made her excuses, shutting her dressing room door with a snap and releasing a slow breath.

As her fingers struggled with the binding that laced her bodice tightly up her back, she felt her thudding heart, and thought of him. Vincent. When she had first met him, when their eyes had locked, in that infinitesimally tiny moment in which the earth had seemed to cease turning, her heart had felt fit to burst out of her chest. She couldn't explain it. Like a deer caught in headlights, like a helpless injured animal, transfixed upon the sight of its predator. She was helplessly, inevitably at his whim, would have done _anything_…

Only she had shaken it.

Huffing a relieved breath as the bindings at last loosened, she shucked her upper body out of her dress, unlacing her dancing shoes, and peeling off her tights. Stood in her supportive undergarments, she scrutinised herself in her mirror. She looked strange, a weird distortion of herself. She cleansed away the layers makeup with special wipes, all the while watching herself with a strange sort of detachment.

It was over, for now. No more dancing. No more purpose. Sighing heavily, she reached for the plastic bag that encased the dress she was to wear for the after party. It had been expensive, and she'd bitten her lip over it enough. But to hell with it, she'd thought. She deserved it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Getting ready immediately after the curtain fall had perhaps been a mistake, she thought to herself as she made her way through a maze of empty corridors towards the stage exit. She was going to be a little early. As she stepped outside into the cool evening, she drew her arms across her silk-encased form. Thankfully, this dress was looser, and would offer her much deserved comfort and flexibility for the night ahead.

Hailing a taxi on the main street, she recited her destination, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her knees, and playing with the clasp of her bag.

Cloud was inevitably going to get an offer tonight, there was no doubt about that within her. Though as happy as she was for him, she couldn't quash the impending sadness she felt welling up within her. She'd known him for years, came to love him like a brother. He was her reassurance whenever she doubted herself, he was her solace whenever she felt down. When he inevitably left to do great things, as she knew he would, she would be alone. She would be just the dancer. Not the dancer with the brilliant partner. She doubted she would ever find another who could make such an authentic chemistry on the stage as she portrayed with Cloud.

Extricating herself from the taxi with as much decorum as she could manage in her heels, she bridged the final distance between her and the function hall's entrance with reluctance, the dying evening sun illuminating her in a burst of brilliant orange light.

The room the after-party was to take place in exceeded her expectations in its grandeur. Marbled floors, beautifully detailed in the patterning, flamboyant golden drapes at each periodically spaced window and open doors, leading out onto small stone balconies. The orchestra that was to play had only just arrived it seemed, setting up their instruments and tuning them. A footman had taken her coat, and had bid her make herself comfortable.

Stepping out onto the small balcony, she peered out over the land below her. The surrounding land was sharply inclined, this building being built into the side of a steep hill; from her vantage point, she could look down on the bay, watching the final rays of the of the dying sun glinting and dancing off the surface of the water. Her chin in her hand, leaning forward on the stone masonry, she silently enjoyed it's lingering warmth on her face, her golden skin burning red now, as if the sun were dying a slow, and painful death.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When he entered the room, suddenly surrounded by men in suits and woman in silk dresses, he struggled to pick her out. He spotted Cloud, his disorderly blond hair a feature that he imagined always set him apart from a crowd. He closed his eyes, focussing his energy, but to no avail; he could not pick out her voice, nor could he catch her scent, that fabulous perfume of her skin…

The air still clung to the heat of day, and he could smell the sunlight, the warmth, still trapped inside the stone. Of course, that was as close as he would ever get. Then the breeze whispering in through the open doors carried with it a whisper of her essence, a trace of her so delicate, yet he was so refined at identifying her now; she rarely left his thoughts, his dreams. How could he forget anything about her?

He stepped forwards purposefully, leaving Scarlett to immerse herself in the vibes of the room, as she always had done. From the open doors, he could now detect her voice, though as he drew close enough to pick out her words, he paused in the shadow of the drapes surrounding the window. He could see her outline, perfect in the moonlight.

"…I just feel that the whole world is moving around me, and I am the only one stood still." She admitted, rubbing at her bare forearms. "No family, you're going off to do great things, Susanna is going travelling for a year at least… that leaves me exactly where I started."

"It doesn't change the fact that you are the most… brilliant dancer I've ever had the privilege to work with. And I don't care what the critics say," he added at her scoff. "You might not be the stupid poncey girl dancer they want, but you move with such passion, feeling… I can't tell you how dancing with you makes me feel."

"Cloud…"

"I don't want you to stop dancing, because of me." He reached out to touch her face, and Vincent felt an unfamiliar cold settle within him. "Whatever happens, we'll always be friends. I certainly won't forget these past few years with you. I love you, you're like a sister to me."

At the appearance of a tear on her perfect cheek, Cloud brushed it away, tugging her closer by her elbows, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I just don't know what to do, Cloud. I've never felt like this before. It's confusing, frustrating, and I hate every moment, not knowing where I stand. I just wish he'd tell me what he was thinking."

Vincent felt that perhaps as much as he wanted to hear more, he couldn't remain hidden from her any longer. He cleared his throat, stepping out onto the small balcony. Tifa hastily wiped her tears away, her cheeks flushed, evidently shocked to see him stood there. Cloud smiled apologetically, reaching out his hand to shake Vincent's.

"Good to see you again, Vincent." Vincent felt guilty for momentarily begrudging the man. Who was he to feel jealous? If he truly cared for Tifa, he would, no-- he _should_, be glad to step aside. "Oh, Tifa, I should go inside for a while, but we can talk later."

"Ok," she sniffed, assembling an expression that she imagined looked a lot braver than she felt. Now they were alone, Vincent felt the words he had wanted to say slip out of his grasp.

"I… You look… beautiful, as always, Tifa." Of course she did; in the warm yellow light bleeding out from inside the hall, her gold dress seemed to smoulder, clinging to her every curve, illuminating her sun-kissed skin, her warm amber eyes, and the rose of her lips. Her chocolate hair was wound at the base of her neck, loose curls tumbling over her shoulders.

"Thank you." She turned away from him then, clutching the tissue Cloud had pressed into her hand moments before to her mouth.

"I… should I leave?"

"No!" She blurted, turning to catch his wrist instinctively. Her hand was warm, and when he raised it to his lips, the lingering heat and scent of the sun ensnared his senses. "Please, I don't meant to cry like this… Cloud is leaving for Russia in a week or so, and I'm just a little…"

"Upset, I can tell." He kept a hold of her hand, bridging the distance between them. "I should apologise for my… sudden change in behaviour towards you that night in the church. I should not have taken you there, if I were to suffer from… certain unwanted recollections from my past. It is not fair of me to allow them to affect you."

She shook her head. "It's alright. And thank you for coming here tonight. I assume you are trying to apologise for not making the show?" He had the decency to look a little sheepish, and at that, she laughed.

"I wanted to get the chance to talk with you, though I fear that here, is not the best place."

"-Perhaps later, we could go somewhere?" She suggested, taking him momentarily aback. He considered her carefully.

"You would still go with me, after everything?"

She blushed a little, avoiding his gaze. "How could I not?" At her words, his heart both soared, and sank. So trusting… when it would be best for her to run from him screaming, and never look back. He lacked the conviction to try and stay away from her any longer.

"Would you care to visit my house? It is not far from here. We could talk there."

She gazed up at him, marvelling at his pale skin, one side of his face cast in golden light from the electric bulbs, the other a jumble of shadows and moonlight. "I would like that very much." She said softly.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Scarlett had found herself an attractive male with whom to dance, and so it seemed proper that he should ask Tifa. She seemed a little surprised at first, and he wondered if perhaps she was as accomplished at this kind of dance as she was at ballet. Her waist was slender, and so warm beneath his hand, her small palm closed in his other, and he noted she moved just as elegantly as he imagined. He couldn't stop looking at her; the music, the room and the people swirling and moving around them were irrelevant to him. He was unaware of anything but her. He wondered if she felt it too; he could hear the steady throb of her heart in her chest, pulsing, flexing, a powerful, never ceasing muscle, forcing blood through her arteries.

Though it was probably best if he didn't focus on that.

"Ah, Vincent, do you mind if I indulge in one final dance with my partner, before I get too drunk, and she makes a fool of me?" Cloud was there, breaking his focus on her. He placed her small hand somewhat reluctantly into Cloud's, stepping out of the throng of dancing people to watch from the boundary of the dance floor. He bumped into Susanna there, who was chatting to a young man her age. On recognising him, she almost spilled her champagne, her perfume enveloping him as she drew close to embrace him in greeting.

"Ohmygod, you should have been there, she was wonderful, wasn't she Steven?" the man at her side obediently nodded. "How come you couldn't make it?" She pouted.

"I was unfortunately tied up, and I was unable to make alternative arrangements." He lied. No, he'd been lying on his bed all day, in the deepest sleep imaginable to a human.

"Too bad. Listen, are you two dating, because--"

"Susanna!" Tifa was suddenly there, her cheeks heated, eyebrows raised in silent admonishment of her friend's outburst. "Well, it's a good job you're all here, because with all the after show business out of the way, I'm going to make my escape. My feet are killing me." Tifa leaned on her friend for support, standing on one heeled-foot, as if to ease the tension of the other. Vincent couldn't help but notice that the cut of the fabric of her dress, revealed the top of a nude lace stocking. He coughed into his hand.

"Wait, you're going with Vincent?"

"Yes, and Scarlett too, I imagine," She looked up to Vincent for confirmation, now on two feet, all traces of thigh out of view for the time being.

"Well, I think she is… engaged." He didn't need to turn around to know she was still dancing with the attractive young man he had seen her with earlier. "I wouldn't want to tear her away."

"Ok, whatever. Enjoy yourselves!"

A hand placed at the small of her back, Vincent steered her out of the room, releasing her only once they were in the quiet of the entranceway. Damnit, Scarlett, it wasn't the best idea to be focussed on food right now. He wanted her to be there to make sure _he_ wasn't doing the same. He'd just have to rely on his own self-restraint.

Oh, please, don't let it fail him now.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Review please! Also, if you wouldn't mind-- any thoughts on what might happen/what you might like to happen? I'd appreciate your insight!_


	7. Surrender

The piece Vincent plays later on in this chapter, is of course, Tifa's theme. Have a listen, all you die-hard fans should have the piano theme already, right? Help me get the reviews up for this one! It's always the same people (not that I am complaining) It's just I know there are some people sneaking on board. It takes a lot of time and effort to write these chapters, so just dropping a line to let me know what you think is fair payment, won't you agree?

Enjoy!

_The world was on fire, no-one could save me but you._

_It's strange what desire can make foolish people do._

_I'd never dreamed that I'd need somebody like you,_

_No, I'd never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you…_

---Chris Isaak, Wicked Game

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

7. Surrender

Her first impression of his home was one of utter disbelief. They were still a mile away, and she could just make it out; golden lights in the windows, setting it alight against the black backdrop of the sky. The moon was rising, huge and magnificent, the craters forming the impression of a laughing face on its surface. As a consequence, the stars were paling to the moon's magnificence. Tifa admired the effect of the moonlight on Vincent's skin.

"I can't believe you live here," She muttered once they'd gotten out of the taxi, staring up jealously from the end of the driveway: He lived in the house at the end of the cliff, the one she had so often admired on her night-time wanderings.

"My father enjoyed a good view," Vincent told her with a delicate chuckle. She wondered if perhaps she had missed something.

He didn't bother to switch on the lights; the moon seemed to be providing enough light on her own, a white-blue spotlight casting strange shadows across the unfamiliar room. Tifa waited for her eye to adjust, lingering by the door until Vincent had lit a few candles dotted about the place.

What was most impressive, and what had struck her first about the room, were the huge ceiling to floor, wall to wall glass panels that seemed to have replaced the walls. The house being perhaps one of the oldest she had ever seen, she assumed that it was a fairly new feature. Crossing over to it, She felt a little dizzy; from it, she could gaze out all across the bay, and out to sea. The water was now an expanse of black, glittering in the moonlight.

"This is pretty impressive, Vincent," She said as he joined her, his jacket and tie discarded, the top few buttons of his shirt undone.

"The house gets terribly hot during the day," He told her, gazing out across the cobalt surface of the water that surrounded his cliff-top house. "This glass is specially designed to block out the UV rays, and most of the heat. The architects seemed incredulous to say the least when I asked them to remove the whole outside face of the house." He chuckled a little.

"Well, I suppose it saves on air-conditioning," she reasoned. "Damn, I need to take off these shoes." She glanced around and located an armchair, which she proceeded to deposit herself into.

"They are hurting you?" He frowned, almost disapprovingly at the heights of the heels. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Don't look at me like that! You are forgetting, of course, that dancing en Pointe for a week solid may be the reason, not these. Though I admit these may not have helped the situation. Red wine if you don't mind." She released a gratified sigh as her heels slide away from her aching feet, muscles singing suddenly, her skin revelling at the sudden kiss of cool air.

"I assume that the shows went well," He called from behind her in the open plan kitchen space, the chink of glass punctuation his words.

"Yes. As you know, Cloud was offered a position in Russia." She smiled a little, placing her shoes neatly to one side, running her hands up her arms.

"Why were you not offered a place also?" Vincent was frowning as he returned, seating himself in the sofa adjacent to her.

"Oh, me? Well, I hear they only take on so many outside of Nibelheim every year," She told him, eyeing the peeling label of the bottle Vincent had set down on the table before her. "Wow, what vintage is this?" She picked it up, examining it.

"My father kept a wine cellar. You are good enough a dancer-- why not you?" He felt she was avoiding the subject, somehow.

"I…" She paused, unable to distract herself further with the wine. Vincent had delicately plucked it from her hands to pour them both a glass. "I refused."

"_What_?" He glanced up, his expression incredulous.

"I refused," she repeated, picking up her filled glass and taking an experimental sip; more out of necessity to bus her hands than a desire to taste it, though the wine was excellent, she noted only briefly. "I have a place with the dancing company here, why should I go to Nibelheim?"

"Tifa… you are a brilliant dancer! You have nothing to tie you here to this place. More than once I have received the impression from you that you are not particularly happy with the way things are-- why refuse an offer like that?"

Vincent knew the Nibelheim Dance Company to be the most revered, the most prestigious academy of its kind across the globe. He'd even been there himself, several decades ago. He could not understand why the woman who now sat before him, indecision written in her face, had declined such an offer.

"I know all that," She sighed heavily, taking a mouthful of wine. "I just… I don't know whether it's what I want."

"I don't understand." Vincent's frown was perpetual now, marring his smooth forehead.

"I danced, I performed, I got my invite. I know I'm good enough. But I've had enough of dancing for now." A serene expression graced her face, and once again, like many times before, he was assaulted with the desire to know what she was thinking. "I danced for all the wrong reasons," she continued, drifting to her feet gracefully, and crossing to the shadow of his piano, dark and elegant in the far corner of the room. Lucia's Piano. Her fingertips trailed across the surface of the ancient wood. "To defy my parents, to prove them wrong. Because I had no other path to walk, no other backup plan to fall back on…"

"And do you still have no 'backup plan'?" He rose, following her. She rested her palms atop the piano lid, her expression open.

"No. But for once, I don't care."

"Foolish, don't you think?"

"I'm done with being smart." She replied abruptly, seating herself cautiously at the stool and placing her fingertips inexpertly over the keys. "It hasn't gotten me anywhere. I'm still alone, still parentless."

"I'm sorry, but I still don't understand. Would it not be your dream to dance for them?"

"Vincent…." She let her hands drop into her lap without playing a single note. "They asked me first. The offer was for me. Not Cloud. It was his dream, so I begged them to offer him the place, and not tell him I had been offered first. I knew what it meant to him."

Vincent's lips parted in silent realisation. "That's… very noble of you." He told her softly, seating himself beside her on the stool, in the space she had made for him. "I did not mean to berate you. I just… I would like to see you achieve great things. You have such talent."

She laughed gently through her nose, brushing her hair out of her face. "Don't worry about it. Just don't tell Susanna, whatever you do."

"I promise." They sat in silence for a while, as Vincent's fingers drifted across the keys randomly, no distinct melody, no pattern to his playing. "Could I play something for you?"

"Of course!" She clasped her hands together. "I was hoping you would."

"I wrote this recently, actually. Aside from Scarlett, you will be the first to hear it."

"Really? Do you intend to play it at concert?"

He shook his head, running through the chords systematically. "No." A hint of smile graced his lips, and she burst to know why.

"What's it called?"

He turned to face her, their noses only inches apart, and her lungs became immobilised, her breath catching in her throat at the intensity of the gaze under which she was pinned. Those eyes, so many colours, full of so many words. She wanted to know them all. "Tifa's theme."

"Oh…"

His hands positioned over the ivory keys, he took a deep breath before he started to play. His hands moved with such fluidity over the keys, the music striking something within her chest that made it harder still to breath. The melody was uplifting, yet within it was something… longing, melancholy, gentility… it spoke to her of all the sadness she had ever felt, all the tears she had shed, the anger and frustration, and made it all seem… necessary. Necessary to have brought her here, to this place, this room, with him.

Him.

When he finished playing, he did not look at her. He could smell the saline of her tears, detect the hitch in her breath. He knew the sight of her, beautiful, torn and enraptured, her face gleaming with moonlit tears would be enough to undo him, so he gave her a few moments in which to collect herself.

"I… Thank you." She whispered, her small hand a warmth at the crease of his elbow.

"Would you like me to show you the rest of the house?" He asked her, the piano stool creaking beneath him as he got to his feet. She hastily wiped her tears dry, nodding her agreement.

"Yes, did you say it was your fathers?" And so she was able to brush over her sudden tearfulness, though there was a knot in her stomach that she knew would not go away for some time yet. Perhaps when she lay in bed tonight, she would revisit this moment, and allow herself to cry a little more.

Vincent turned on lights as they passed from room to room, if only to observe it's interior. She was impressed; light airy rooms, in rich cream's, gold's and red's, well decorated and furnished. Some of the furniture looked about as old as the house. She eyed it enviously; she'd always had an attraction to period furniture; the lustrous polished wood, intricate etchings, and carpentry were unmatched on the modern market. With her modest income she'd managed to get her hands on a few things akin to this, from jumble sales and reclamation yards (a haven for old-time scavengers such as herself), though she imagined hers had seen better days.

The last place he led her into appeared to be the largest of the upstairs bedrooms-- only one of five or six, (she'd lost count). It's west-facing wall was of the glass she had seen downstairs-- so it extended the full height of the two stories-- and it was sparsely populated by furniture.

Scarlett's room had been much more to Tifa's taste. Like a little girl, her eyes had gone wide at the site of richly coloured drapes about the bed, the dozen or so luxurious scatter cushions, and of course what she'd die to get her hands on, the dressing table adorned with glittering jewelled items she couldn't identify in her brief examination from the doorway-- She hadn't wanted to snoop.

Vincent stepped into the centre of the carpeted room, staring out of the window without really seeing it. The room felt as impersonal as any room could feel. Just a bed, plain white sheets, though when she turned on the spot, she was assaulted by the sight of immense floor to ceiling bookcases jam-packed with dusty looking tomes, battered music books, and text books, novels of every kind, from over many eras.

"Wow…" She breathed, inhaling the rich, musty scent of the aged paper with relish. She loved that smell. It reminded her of being in her father's study, of being at college, when her cares had seemed so far away…

"You like to read?" He asked, a smile evident in his voice as he crossed to her side.

"Whenever I get a moment. There are so many!" She struggled to scan the titles inscribed on the spines on the books, inhabiting the top most shelves. "How do you find anything?"

"It is organised, to a certain degree," He shrugged, a little more at ease it seemed, now she had initiated a conversation. "If you see anything you like, you are welcome to borrow it."

"Thanks! Saves me a trip to the bookstore or the library at least." One book that had caught her eye looked to be in fairly good repair for one so old; she plucked it free, examining the cover. "John Donne?"

"Yes. Metaphysical poet, from the 17th Century. I would recommend him."

"It looks old," She remarked, turning it over in her hands.

"It was a gift from my wife." He said softly, peering over her shoulder to look upon the book.

"I can leave this one if you… If it's important to you." She reached to place it back amongst the others, but his hand at her wrist stilled her.

"It's alright. I think… Lucia would have recommended it to you, were she here."

She glanced up from the cover of the battered, well-loved book to peer into his face. He seemed earnest, his countenance revealing nothing to her. Her brows coming together faintly, she looked openly into his face, chewing habitually on her bottom lip.

Clearing his throat, Vincent broke eye contact. "Well, shall we return downstairs?"

"Oh! Yes," She swept her gaze around the room one last time, as if hoping _something_ would jump out at her, something, anything, that would preserve the memory. Deciding that the bookshelves would have to suffice, she crossed the floor stepped out into the spacious hallway. He closed the door with a gentle click after her.

The book still clutched between her fingers, she set to follow him back down into the living area. Then she noticed the painting.

It had not stood out to her in the shadow of the hall earlier, though Vincent had opted to turn the light on to aid her descent of the stairs. It was an oil painting, in lustrous gold's, yellow's and olive's. The woman's skin was of rich gold, her hair like spun sunlight, arranged perfectly about her face. Tifa studied it carefully, aware that Vincent had backtracked on noticing she was no longer following him.

Something about the woman's expression called out to Tifa; it was as if the artist had tried to preserve her beauty, her flawlessness. He wanted to portray happiness; but something about her eyes, lovely and olive green as they were, that told her she was sad. Suffering, and lamenting. The details in the amber fabric of her dress was exquisite, and Tifa felt as though she could touch the silks, and find embellished stitches, and tiny gems.

"This is wonderful," she breathed, touching her fingers delicately to the canvas, revelling the sensation of the bumps of the dried oils beneath them. "Who painted this?"

"I did." She turned, her lips parted in surprise. "That is… was Lucia. As she looked when I married her."

"It is… she was incredibly beautiful." _As if he didn't need reminding_.

"I know."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… It's the second time she's come up in five minutes, I--"

"Tifa." He stepped closer, pressing his fingertip to her lips. For a moment, she was frozen at the slightest touch of his skin to hers. Her lips tingling. He could smell her now, so strongly... he shouldn't be this close to her, not now… "I should walk you home. It is getting late."

"Of course, yes I didn't realise…" In a flurry of activity she had donned her shoes again, Vincent's jacket about her shoulders now that the night's cool breath had lessened the lingering heat of the day. The return journey was mostly silent, though she noted not entirely uncomfortable. She did her best to maintain a little small talk, for which Vincent was immensely grateful. Being a bartender by trade was perhaps socially enriching, in that sense.

He stopped at her door, accepting his jacket back from her. In case he needed it, she said. He knew he wouldn't, though he nodded regardless. He tore his gaze from her, rigidly turning to head back out of the gardens that surrounded her apartment complex, to walk along the dust road that would lead him home.

"Vincent!" He turned at her voice, guilt clawing at his insides at the sight of her. She looked on the verge of tears, though valiantly, she was keeping them at bay, her lips barely containing their tremor. "I wanted to thank you for coming to the party tonight. and for… listening to me."

"You are welcome," he replied stiffly, unable to shake the feeling that perhaps that was not what she had intended to say. She took a step closer to him, faltering a little, chewing on her lip again, as he had seen her do before.

"I know you heard me talking to Cloud earlier. About you…" He grit his teeth. "And I don't care. I just wish… you'd at least tell me where I stand. One night you almost kiss me, then… the rather inexplicably you take me to the church…"

"Tifa…"

"--and then you take me home without another word." She gazed down at the book she still held clutched in her hand. "I know it's because… because of Lucia…" He felt the faintest tremor of his heart, normally still in his chest. "But I just wish you'd tell me that. Then I would know…"

"I'm sorry. I should never have taken you to the church…"

"Sorry? You think I want you to be sorry?" She laughed mirthlessly, tapping her foot agitatedly. "Well, I'll tell you something-- I'm sorry. For wasting your time. For even letting you _think_ I was interested. Because it's not gotten me _anywhere_. Nothing ever does."

He struggled to regain his composure, finding the book she had taken suddenly thrust into his open palms. What was he doing? Was he just going to let her go?

She fumbled with her keys, her breathing erratic as she tried to calm herself.

"Tifa, don't do this, please…"

Heaving a sigh, halfway through the door, she turned to him. "I shouldn't have wasted your time. I just wish I knew what you wanted from me…"

"I want…" He stepped forwards, pulling the door open wider, though not really sure what he intended to do from there. Or, come to think of it, tell her exactly _what_ it was he wanted. "I am finding it… hard to adjust. And I know that sounds… deplorable."

She frowned. "You know what _is_ 'deplorable'?" She laughed again, that same bitterness marring the intent. "The fact that I refused the offer to dance in Nibelheim, not just because of Cloud, but because of you."

"Because of me?" He scowled, unable to prevent some of his inner-rage from seeping into his voice.

"I thought that there was something between us…" She admitted, dropping her eyes. "I thought… I've never allowed myself to pursue anything like… _this_." She gesticulated with her hands, struggling to find words. "I thought that I would wait this out. That perhaps, I could be happy, with you."

To that, he had no words. She stayed because she wanted to pursue a relationship with _him_? The situation was rapidly spiralling out of hand, out of _his_ hands. Damnit, Scarlett had been right. Not that she'd been against this, against him moving on at last, but she'd warned him of hesitating. His perception of time was distorted-- humans, like Tifa, wouldn't be so patient.

"What can I say to that? You've made me feel… like the world's worst bastard."

At this, to his surprise, she laughed, some of her anger dissipating. "You're not, Vincent. But surely you can see what I mean."

She stepped closer, reaching a hand up to his face. Her delicate scent washed over him, the gentle sound of her pulse beating weakly at her wrist prominent in his mind. He shouldn't be here much longer. Any longer and he might just… she might just get the answer to her questions. He was hesitating because he knew once she discovered him, which she would inevitably, should he continue to pursue her, that was-- she would wish him away from her. She would wish him gone from her life as rapidly as he had entered it.

"I do not deserve you, Tifa. I am… I am not what you expect me to be, what you hoped I would be…"

"You are exactly as I'd hoped…" Her palm was warm about his neck now, her warm amber eyes calling silently to him. "But you're right, you don't always do what I expect. But who said predictability was a good thing?"

"Tifa. I am not… You should turn away and never look back."

Her brow burrowed. There it was-- that familiar expression; guarded, yet exposed, mistrusting of everyone, but mostly himself. Angry. Filled with hate, disgust. "You said that to me in the Opera House. Why do you think yourself so… potentially harmful to me?"

This was getting into dangerous territory now. "I only wish you happiness. I cannot promise you that, if you were to chose me."

"What if I don't care?" He sighed heavily at her words.

"Then I am powerless to refuse you any longer." Her eyelids fluttered at the sudden contact of his mouth on hers. A pause, a breath passed between their lips as he pulled away, thumb idly stroking her jaw line, palm cupping her elegant throat. Her eyes were half-lidded, flushed lips parted, a promise for more, should he take it. "Please accept this for now. I must go."

He left her breathless in the entranceway to her apartment block, the book inexplicably in her hands once again. She could only watch him fade away, his retreating back ever lit by the powerful beams of the moon. Breathing in deeply, sucking in her bottom lip to try and revisit again, his taste, she returned in doors, her entire body raised in goosebumps.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

21/05/2010 So there's chapter 7! My exams begin on monday for two weeks, then I'll be in the states for two weeks! A break at last! Please don't fret if you'd don't hear from me in a while-- tell all your friends about me! Help me get my work out there! Thanks for reading, and as always, please review!


	8. The First Taste

8. The First Taste

She just didn't know what to think; her thoughts were inconsistent, stochastic and non-sensical but she didn't care. She'd spoken her mind, for once, and she felt like she was at last getting what she wanted. He'd kissed her; softly, chastely, but there was something there, in his eyes, that she did not miss. The slightest catch of breath in his throat, his dilate pupils, the gentlest of twitches in the fingers resting on her neck.

He wanted more.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, she breezed through her tiny open plan apartment, kicking off her shoes by the front door and tossing her bag in the vague direction of her sofa. Tugging open the doors that would lead out onto her tiny balcony, she inhaled the fresh scent of the night. Leaning on the railings, she gazed out into the distance; she could make out his house, glittering on the cliff's edge, the windows gleaming in the moonlight.

Gods, what was she doing? She'd turned down the Nibelheim dance company! With a burst of spasmodic laugher, she covered her mouth, raising her face towards the heavens, the bleary stars winking down upon her. What would her mother have said? She would most likely have hit the roof. _do you intend on wasting your life running that bar, is this Vincent worth tossing aside the best offer you've ever been made in your life?_-- she imagined it would go something like that.

Realising she still clutched the aged poetry book in her hand, she gently turned over from the front cover. Inside, there was a message written in elegant hand in pencil. Smiling, she tried her best to read it; the swirling, beautiful letters were a little difficult to interpret.

_To my darling Vincent on your birthday, _

_try at least to be cultural, I fear you may wither away from lack of reading!_

_love always, _

_Lucia_

Her face relaxed into a sad smile. It was excruciatingly clear to Tifa that Vincent and his wife had been very much in love, before her untimely death. It helped her a little to understand his hesitation, his psyche all the more.

Then she saw the date. Etched so delicately into the top corner, she'd almost missed it. A date that marked an October a hundred or so years ago. It must have been from whoever owned it, prior to Lucia giving it to Vincent. But it was strange, she noted, that the date seemed to be written in the same hand, and with the same instrument. Frowning, she returned to the soft silence of her living room, setting the book down on the dresser. Of course it was absurd to think that he could be over a hundred years old. He barely looked the thirty-five he was.

Disregarding it, she slid open the doors to her bedroom just off the living room, slipping her arms out of the silk straps of her dress and letting it slip to the floor with a whisper of fabric. She undid her hair, combing it out slowly and deliberately as she reflected on the evening. Perhaps things had not gone exactly how she would have hoped, yet still, he had kissed her; an action which spoke louder than any words he could say. He wanted her, to some degree. He was telling her, if she were willing to wait just a little longer, he'd be able to give himself to her piece by tiny fragmented piece.

Setting down her brush, she set about locating her only silk nightdress, her mind running over her conversation with Susanna, weeks ago at the Opera House. Black, the hem resting just below the knee. She couldn't remember why she'd bought it, now. She didn't have anyone to impress. But, she thought with the barest hint of a hopeful smile, now she did.

She slid between her bed sheets, gazing up at the thin shaft of moonlight on her ceiling that had evaded the curtains, finally drifting off to sleep thinking of pianos, beautiful golden skinned women from a hundred years past, and a certain dark haired musician.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Once he knew he was out of her plane of view, he abruptly changed course, heading towards where he knew Scarlett to be. He could pick her out quite easily at this hour, when so few people were about on the dark streets of Costa. He found her after a time, in a bar not far from Tifa's, still with the dark haired man she had been dancing with earlier.

"Scarlett." He announced himself to her out of habit; she knew he was here. They were connected in mind and body. Most likely she knew he would come before even he had decided it himself.

"Ah, Vincent my darling brother, do come join us." She gestured to the empty seat beside her, smiling serenely, though her crystal blue eyes sweeping over his countenance missed nothing. She sensed his hunger, he need for blood, and it excited her in the animalistic way of her kind. She wanted a hunt. "Actually, I was just going to suggest that Carlos and his lovely cousin Lora join us at the house for the evening," She raised her brows only slightly, but he caught her intention clearly enough.

"That is an excellent proposal."

The party of four, Scarlett with her Carlos, the attractive russet-haired youth with the foreign accent who had been at Tifa's after party, and his cousin, Lora were headed towards his cliff top house. Lora was beautiful enough; tumbling auburn curls, a delicate nose which turned up slightly at the end, and sparkling hazel eyes. Though looking at her, he did not see that. He saw flowing chocolate waves and amber eyes set against golden skin.

When they arrived back at the house, Scarlett poured out generous measures of wine for their guests, toasting to a great performance, and a wonderful evening. The glint in Scarlett's eye meant it was far from over.

Soon enough he found himself alone with the girl. She couldn't have been much older than twenty five. Her second wine glass drained, he could sense the thinning of her blood in her arteries. He knew it was best to enjoy it fresh, untainted, though Scarlett had her reasons for getting her guests a little drunk. More of a chance they would not remember anything, when daylight came.

She glanced across the sofa and he met her gaze. It was time. His pupils dilated, and felt the familiar ache in his gums as his incisors readied themselves for the feed. Moving incomprehensibly fast, he was at her side in the briefest fraction of a second, her breathing cutting short with a sudden gasp. Her eyes never left his, and he commanded her body to submit to his will. Her heart rate slowed, and her muscles relaxed into inactivity.

"I am sorry, Lora." He vaguely whispered.

Upstairs, she appeared to have forgotten her previous surprise, unaware of the peril she was in. In fact, it was quite the opposite for her. As his teeth slid into her exposed throat, her body reclined in one of the spare beds, she released a moan, her fingers weakly clutching at his shirt. It had not been difficult to overpower her mind. She was already pretty much of _this_ mindset.

Submitting to his appetite in this way tore him apart. It reminded him of how weak he could be, how he had to become a monster in order to survive. Not only was it enough that he could never walk under the sun for all time, in order to walk in the shadows, he must become one. He must embrace his instincts, his needs. His _urges_.

As his veins pulsed with the warmth of borrowed blood, he felt sated for now. Withdrawing from his unwitting victim, her bare thighs bent about him, he felt the buzz of the wine she had been drinking. Her neck was slick with blood, pulsing gently from the two round incisions his teeth had left, though in the morning she would bear no wound. He would return to clean away the evidence in a moment.

Splashing his face with cold water in the bathroom, he tried to trap out the sounds of Scarlett obeying her urges; in that sense, perhaps she was a little more human than he. His back to the cool tiles, he slid to the floor, his arms around his knees.

"You had not tasted her?" Scarlett entered into the dark cool of the bathroom after an hour had passed, her body draped in red silk, crouching before him. He knew she did not mean the woman currently in a daze in one of the spare rooms.

"I… a brief touch of lips, and I hear her thoughts like radio static…"

Scarlett smiled, her white teeth visible in the darkness. Her lips still bore the red flush of blood. "I am proud of you Vincent," Her delicate hand, capable of monstrous strength, caressed his cheek. "You are doing well."

"She is going to find out. I know it."

"Vincent… you underestimate something."

"What?" He frowned, raising his head to lock gazes with her. His creator, his mother, his sister. "You think it is possible to hide this from her forever?"

"No. But you forget Love."

"Love?"

" _Amore, __Szerelem_, Любовь… It goes by many names. Love! Don't tell me you have forgotten so readily?"

"I have not."

"Good." Scarlett leant over his, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Do not keep her waiting."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

he was surprised to find her balcony doors were wide open, allowing in the whispering breeze, and also, shadows. He'd made the ascent up the side of the building with no difficulties, stepping cautiously into her living room. It felt wrong to be here, unbidden, without her knowledge. But he needed to see her again, if not to remind him why he was doing this, but why he needed to go on.

The sight of her took his breath away. White sheets up to her waist, a contrast to the black silk she wore. The long chocolate strands of her hair spread about her pillow, entwined in her fingers. Her chest rose and fell softly, rhythmically as she slept on, unaware of her watcher. Bending over her sleeping form, the connection between them seemed to spark into life.

A kiss to the back of her hand had been enough the first time they met; enough for him to know she was going to be in danger, that she would need him. Enough to realise that she was not like anyone other he had met. She was stronger, resilient; his gaze had no effect on her. He was looking to feed that night, and though he was entranced by her, he dared not pursue it. She could be something more than just human. He maintained that she knew there was something different about him; in the way she watched him, the way her eyes would not succumb to his mesmerising influence. Her scent, the taste of her skin was… unique. Pure. and more alluring that anything he had ever experienced. He had to resist, though why, he did not know.

His lips on hers this night, had revived the jumble of inconsistent thoughts, the incessant mind ramblings and made them oh so much clearer. A taste of her, her essence, had strengthened a hundred fold the bond they shared. so close to her now, he could sense the buzz of her thoughts, her brain shuffling through images, processing all she had learned today.

She was peaceful, yet a dream was plaguing her, marring her serene features with the barest hint of a frown. If he closed his eyes, focused on the bond, an invisible thread linking her conscience to his, he could _hear_ her. Such joyful bliss, what magical union this was, to be in her mind, so freely and without fear. His hunger sated, he allowed his barriers to simply fall away…

She was stood in his house, her skin bathed in moonlight. She could see him, and her heart was overjoyed. In the waking world, Tifa's lips parted, streams of whispers passing her lips. _A hundred years ago…? _In her dreams, he took her into his arms, kissed her with no shame, with no thought to any possible repercussions. It made him feel ashamed almost, to think he could never allow himself to fall victim to his passions like that. If only he could allow himself, just once.

He could smell her now, stronger than ever, he blood flowing close to the surface, surging through her vessels to accommodate her hungry cells. His body still hungered for her, as he expected it always would, in spite of the fact that he had fed not hours before. But he caught himself wondering if, over all the years of solitude and bloodlust, he'd gotten it confused with the real thing; passion.

Sighing, he bent close to her, hesitating before pressing his lips gently to her forehead. She barely stirred, his doppelgänger in her dreams satisfying her most likely in ways he would never allow himself to.

Her brain was sorting through all the information, storing it, reliving it. She had to know… and he had to believe that she would do the right thing, and run while she had the chance.

If not, he was at loss for what to do.

He left her sleeping, the only remnant of his being there at all the barest hint of moisture on her forehead, where his lips had touched for the briefest of lingering moments.

It was so painfully clear to him now, as he hit the ground running, the scent of approaching dawn on the air. Scarlett had known it. His body had known.

He loved her. _He_, the vampire, loved the helpless, beautiful human. He loved everything about her. How she was so defiant, quick to spill her feelings, so lacking in shame it forced him to humility. So beautiful, elegant in both movement and form, and so, so alluring to him.

He loved her. But selfish as he was, he did not was to relinquish her to another. He wanted more, he wanted her to push the boundaries of his comfort zones, he wanted her to force his confession from him, so he should hide nothing from her. He wanted _her_.

His nails cut through flesh as he balled his fists. He could never have her. So fine was the line between the two lusts, he would not dare to try and cross either.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Tifa was smiling a little to herself in the bar that night, habitually wiping down the varnished surface of the wood. If Susanna had noticed, she had not yet spoken of it, though Tifa did not think her so blind as to have not. The season was picking up now; more patrons trickled in after a day at the beach, sunbathing and surfing, their faces sun kissed or burned. With her smiling countenance, the glow she had about her, she was attracting more notice than ever.

But she oblivious to it all.

Vincent had accompanied her to Cloud's leaving party, and she was pleased to introduce him to those who did not know him already, as her date for the evening. His lips had twitched slightly at that, though he did not contradict her. That night, she had returned to his house with Scarlett, and they'd sat up for hours just talking and laughing; the best time she'd had in a while, despite the fact that she'd had to make one of the hardest goodbye's of her life. Cloud had been sweet; squeezing her tiny frame and promising to write to her constantly.

She looked forward to his letters.

Vincent had walked her home-- as was customary-- and had kissed her again, this time lingering a little while longer, allowing himself to indulge in her taste to prolong the memory. He'd tucked her hair behind her ear, gracing her with the gentlest of smiles before letting go of her hand and heading home.

She'd watched him go again, her brow furrowed a little from frustration. Though not for being angry with him, no; this time, she was exasperated. He was trying very hard, she knew, to make a conscious effort at contact, at making her feel wanted. Though his eyes said it all for her; no amount of holding her hand, or tucking of hair behind ears told her as much. He burned for her, and she for him.

But how long was he going to keep it up?

Turning to retrieve a handful of beers from the fridge for a customer, enjoying the coolness in her hands, she decided. Tonight, she was going to take control. Tonight, she was going to go where he daren't.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The night shifted around him, throngs of people returning from a day in the sun. He could smell them, so strongly now, in his state of need. His steps had no intended direction, his thoughts turbulent and chaotic. He'd left the oppressive walls of his prison home now that the sun had receded; the days were getting longer, the sun rising earlier, and sinking later. He was confined within the safety of his walls for longer than he felt was possible. His instincts called to him, driving him to roam the darkness, seek out satiety in the form of unwilling victims. He did not enjoy it, but it was necessary.

…Necessary so that it not be her who would satisfy him in ways he daren't dwell on.

He had been wandering for hours, along the beach, back along the promenade, through the old cobbled streets of the forgotten old town, past the cathedral where he had… No. It was best not to dwell on that. He quickened his pace, hands thrust into his pockets, his head lowered. Dressed in black, with his dark hair, he was all but a shadow. But when he was with _her_… he was fire. She was the sun, she burned him still, but addicted, he went back for more. Such a fool…

"Vincent?" That voice, as if she had emerged from his thoughts to appear before him. Of course it was about the time that she would be leaving from work. He registered her with a frown; she wore a silken black dress, an orange flower fixed in her long wavy hair. "I've just been for a few drinks with Susanna-- I was on my way home actually."

"On your own?" He scowled in disapproval. He may he just about the most dangerous thing there was out there tonight, but still, after what had happened all those weeks ago…

"My apartment building is right here, Vincent. I went to the bar across the street." He glanced up. In his distracted frame of mind, his feet had carried him where his conscience would not allow him; to her apartment. "Won't you come in? I've been meaning to speak to you actually." She peered at him stoically from beneath her lashes, waiting for him expectantly.

Thinking it rude to refuse when he clearly had nothing better to do, he acquiesced, following a step behind her, trying not to inhale too deeply; the scent from her hair was intoxicating.

Inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and tossed her bag to one side, whirling around on the spot to face him, the hem of her dress swimming about her sun-kissed legs. The scent of sunshine was strong- perhaps she too, like all humans here today, had been out enjoying the sun, sand and the sea.

"You needed to talk to me?" He prompted stiffly, unsure of where to put himself. Their encounter had been sporadic to say the least. He was not as prepared as he should have been.

"Yes, I did." She stepped closer, taking his hand in hers. "I wanted to talk to you about… us."

"Us?"

"Yes." She faltered a little, chewing on her bottom lip. The action caused the blood to rise to the surface, colouring them a most appealing flushed pink. It reminded him of the real reason for his impromptu night-time wanderings. He repeated a mantra in his head, concentrating on _not_ concentrating on her. The way she smelled, his desire to know what she would taste like… _sound_ like beneath him.

"I… Tifa I should go." To keep his body still was a feat of true endurance. His instinct was to run towards her, his mind was screaming to run away from her… yet he could obey neither.

"Vincent, I'm getting tired of waiting," There was a glint in her eye that both thrilled and terrified him. He should have left there are then, made whatever excuse he could. It may have hurt her, but it would have been for the best. For the best. All for her safety…

But her palm was so firm on his chest, her movement so alluring, that he didn't quite realise the finality of the situation until his steps were impeded by the mattress of her bed. His knees buckling, he was seated, then forced backwards, never taking his eyes from her face. Slender shoulders, exposed by the thin straps of her dress, her slim, toned thighs coming to rest spanning his waist.

He knew he shouldn't be doing this; he _knew_ it was getting increasingly difficult with each passing second to resist her, and with each second, the peril was mounting. He should not have come tonight. He should have fed, he should have-- But her lips were warm, moist, fragrant with the scent of the balm she wore. Her body heat radiated from her skin, a haze of energy, thawing him through, as she sat astride him, her face so close to his, he could feel the heat of her breath. Curious hands wound their way around his neck, and unable to defy her any longer, he allowed her to lower her mouth to his, closing that final distance between them.

She tasted of wine; berries, chocolate, vanilla, a hint of oak from the casks it had been stored in. She was fruit, she was flowers, she was everything he could no longer have, though nonetheless things he urgently craved once more. His hand trembled only slightly as he traced his fingers along the curve of her side, to close about her neck. Her pulse throbbed beneath his pale hands…

Tightly gripping her body to his, he reversed their positions. She was underneath him, her breathing unsteady, coming in rapid bursts against his cheek. She was putting up no resistance, her face averted, neck exposed… and his walls were gone, pupils dilate, the beast that was his hunger alive and laughing. His fangs elongated, his nose brushing her jaw line. At her gentle moan, he could no longer stop himself. She whimpered so softly, so quietly, as he punctured the skin, inhaling the fresh, hot scent of her blood as it moved over his tongue… Oh, why had he waited this _long_? She was hot, surging, and human, she was a drug he could not stop from taking… Her body shifted beneath his, a muted cry of pain piercing his mind, abruptly tearing from his feeding-induced haze.

"No!" His voice was edged with the hunger he was trying so hard to defy. Tearing his mind and body away in horror, he'd thrown himself away from her, chest heaving, back pressed to the wall of her small living room, metres away.

From the bed, Tifa's eyes were wide, her knees raised, her back pressed to her bed head. She'd seen. She couldn't dismiss the speed at which he had moved. And she felt the warmth of her own blood slide between her breasts. She reached up to touch the bite marks, her fingertips stained crimson, eyes going wide at the sight of it.

"What are you?" She whispered, watching tears of blood trace livid lines down his face.

"I'm sorry…" He said, striding swiftly to her terrace and disappearing from her sight. Rushing out after him, she could not see even a trace of his shadow, the breeze picking up the loose strands of her hair, sending them swirling about her face. tiny tendrils clung to the damp of her cheeks. The blood on her skin cooled, accosted by the night air.

He was gone.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Leave a review… You have to after this, surely?


	9. From Russia, In love

I'm so sorry, it has been so long, but I was really lost as to what to do after the bite scene. I really wanted to do the whole biting thing, though after that, my ideas ran out.

Here is one of those 'middle chapters' I often find myself writing—a bridge onto something more. Though I hope you will forgive me—it's been tormenting me for a long while, this story. I didn't want Tifa to be so accepting of Vincent's afflictions. After all, Vampires are still underground.

Please, I beg you to review, It will be nice to hear from old faces!

Jessicaj

9. From Russia, In love

When she woke that morning, the haze of the previous evening's events descended upon her ten-fold. Her head ached a little (that would be the cocktails), her muscles were sore, and it seemed as though one day soon, her brow would be perpetually be creased into a frown.

Had last night been real?

She touched her fingertips to her throat. Nothing. Scowling now, she scrambled to her feet, striding purposefully into the bathroom and forcefully yanking the cord at the side of the mirror. She squinted in the sudden burst of light, waiting until her eyes had adjusted before leaning closer to the looking glass. Not a mark in sight.

Drumming her fingers on the counter top, she closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Had last night really happened?

Shivering suddenly, she looked out into her living room, the gauzy white drapes fluttering in the morning breeze. The balcony doors were still wide open! It returned to her in fragments; how the cool wind had plucked at her hair as she scanned the landscape of black shapes and shadows. The lights in the cliff-top house had gone out, then. She had fallen to sleep bombarded by waves of emotions that she felt, at times, were not entirely her own.

He said they were connected… Perhaps now her blood was now one with his, they were even more so now that ever.

Seating herself at the tiny table out on her balcony, her arms drawn tight across her body, she stared out blindly to sea. It was approaching dawn, and the bay was eerily still. No seagulls called at this hour, no human trod the pavements. The sky was lightening behind her, though its golden rays would not reach the sea for an hour yet.

It almost hurt to think; Vincent, the man she had fallen for, who was reserved, unpredictable and who seemed far too gentile for the time, was actually something she didn't believe existed. Or at least, not until now. His lips at her neck had sent her brain into overdrive, her chest swelling with bated breath. She almost hadn't felt the pain; it felt good, a thrill along her spine. But then he'd bitten down harder, his body crushed against hers, and she'd whimpered in pain… then he'd materialised twenty feet or so away before she'd even realised he had moved.

He'd tried to tell her; _Tifa, I should go._ But she hadn't listened, had mistook that gleam in his eye, the tremor in his voice for hesitation, for desire. Though she had not been wrong, in that sense. He wanted her, she knew that. But just in more ways that she realised.

Everything fit into place now; the opera house, the church, all those hesitant kisses at her doorstep. He was fighting it. Battling with his inner drive to simply bury his teeth into her throat and bleed her dry, until the very end, where it had been her weakness that finally broke him.

"Oh, Vincent…" She sobbed quietly, burying her face in her forearms. She was distracted suddenly by the shrill peal of her phone ringing. Frowning, she re-entered her apartment, crossing to the dresser, ignoring the old tattered book she had yet to read, let alone return to its non-human owner.

"Hello?" She almost whispered.

"Tifa." That voice. She didn't realise how much she had been longing to hear in until now. "I'm just calling to see if you are… alright. I sensed you were awake." His voice held some trepidation, as though he expected her to simply cut him off.

"I… I'm fine. I just... I'm so confused…" She tried to control the waver in her tone.

"I understand." Then, a resounding click.

"Vincent?" Her only answer was the dull drone of the dead line.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The crisp, frigid air burned her lungs as she disembarked, her exhaled breath rising in a mist before her face. Moscow airport.

Leaving Costa behind for a week hadn't been a difficult decision to make. Susanna had had no trepidations about taking care of the bar while she was gone. She had no other reasons, no other ties to that place anymore. The lights in the cliff top house had remained out since that night, a night she had pushed to the recesses of her mind. The details had become hazy, and distorted. She struggled to recall anything crystal, definitive. But she knew enough to know that Vincent was no longer in that house.

That detail in itself had been difficult to accept. What was he running from? Where had he run to?

"What are you?" Her whisper was lost over the racket of the conveyor belt, muffled by the scarf wrapped about her neck and face. The only man she had felt connected to, attracted to, had to be a... "Vampire."

Her battered leather suitcase came tumbling down through the flap-covered hatch, and she made a grab for it, hauling it off the belt. It was heavy. But Vincent had lifted him off of the ground, as if he were a rag doll...

The soles of her boots clicked dully on the linoleum as she crossed the baggage claim area, heading for the arrivals, where Cloud awaited her. She wondered how much two months in Russia had changed him.

Amongst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted him easily—his disorderly blonde hairstyle was unmatched, it seemed, anywhere in the world. Smiling, she made a beeline for him, weaving her way through the hoards of Russians.

"Ah, there you are!" He'd spotted her, stepping forwards to take her case from her aching hand. "How was the flight?"

He swept her away, engaging her in easy conversation that she could reply to automatically. It felt good to see him again, and once she was safely seated in the warm space of his car, she turned in her seat to study him. He looked a little paler than she remembered, though she supposed that had to do with the sub zero temperatures and no more hours on the Costa beaches. Other than that, he was exactly as she remembered; Tall, well built, crystal blue eyes, and a smiling rosy mouth.

He was full of chatter, telling her about the dance school, the attractive Russian girls, who were playing hard to get, and she felt content listening to him, though his words only served to remind her just how much she missed his company. How much she missed _normal_ company...

"Tifa?"

"Hm?" She focused on him again, aware that she had become rather lost in thought, staring at her leather gloves.

"—I said how are things with the bar?"

"Oh! Well, you know, busier I guess, with it being summer and all."

"What about Vincent—are you two still in denial?"

She didn't answer, taking the moment where Cloud was concentrating on pulling out of the airport entrance to try and think of a way to skate over the issue. When he glanced over at her again, a frown tugging at his eyebrows, she knew it was no use. He'd sensed her misgivings, and she doubted that he didn't pick up on her lack of details in her letters.

"I... I don't see him anymore." She tugged off her gloves and scarf, conscious of the car's heating kicking in.

"Oh. How come? I thought you two were getting on."

"We were."

"I don't get it. Tifa, what is it? You've been weird for months. I noticed in your letters." He glanced at her periodically, returning his gaze to the road between each questioning stare.

"I... I'd rather not talk about it."

"Sure, but... well, if you need me, I'm here."

"I know. Thanks, Cloud."

The remainder of the journey passed in silence.

. . . . . . . . . . .

She'd never been to a place like Moscow in her life. Nor could she imagine anywhere being as wonderful. Snow caked everything, the white a stark contrast to the brilliantly coloured towers of the buildings around the famous Red Square.

Cloud had whisked her off sightseeing immediately after she had been fed and rested from her flight, and she was grateful for the distraction he was inadvertently offering her. He took her ice skating, and of course, being a ballet dancer, it proved to be of no challenge to her. Skating with him arm in arm, she could imagine it was the old times, where she had him all to herself. Where nothing else mattered, except her dance. They toured the cathedrals, the museums, and finally, in the evening, Cloud took her to an expensive restaurant on Red Square.

She had wondered if perhaps she would be overdressed, in her red silk evening gown, though on noting that all the men wore tuxedos, and the waiters wore bow ties, she was thankful she'd thought to pack at least one fancy dress. A man took her coat for her once inside and out of the cold, and they were shown to their table. It was adorned by a flickering wax candle and a single red rose.

"Gosh, Cloud, this place is wonderful," She muttered to him, after the waiter had assisted her in sitting. "I can't imagine how much it costs..." Curious, she opened the menu to check, though she raised her eyes again at Cloud's snigger.

"In Russia, the ladies are given menus without the prices. It is... considered a given, that the man will cover the costs. After all, he presumably asked her on the date."

Tifa laughed behind her hand, flushing a little. A date? "I have been tricked, it seems. I was under the impression that this was a dinner between friends."

Cloud smirked in that cheeky way of his, raising his hands in submission. "You fly to Russia to see me, I think it fair game I pay for dinner."

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, only smiling in response. "Excuse me, I must powder my nose."

The candlelight caught in the jewels at her ears and throat, catching Cloud's attention. He watched her walk away, the silk of her dress almost the colour of red wine, in the subdued lighting. The waiter cleared his throat, to announce his arrival at the table.

"Ah, yes, I'm ready to order." He ordered what Tifa had requested, as well as his own choice. The waiter collected the menus, and gave a curt nod of his head, just as Tifa was returning to the table.

"Ah, your lady returns," The older man pulled out Tifa's chair for her. She thanked him graciously, placing her hand in his open palm as he offered it to her. "She is very beautiful, you are very lucky man." He pressed his lips to the back of her palm.

"Ha. Thank you, my good man."

When the maître d' had retired, Tifa narrowed her eyes at her companion. "You are a fiend, Cloud Strife."

"I've been called worse."

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Helped into her coat again, they passed out into the square again. Darkness had long fallen upon them, and the streetlights offered an intimate glow to the place. The buildings felt much more impressive it the dark, and they meandered slowly across the square to soak in the atmosphere. Somewhere, a band was playing, music alien to her ears, but still beautiful all the same. The skies above were dusted with stars, somehow very alien to those back home. She sighed to herself, suddenly missing the monotonous routine of her life back in Costa.

"Tifa... I... did Vincent do something to upset you?" Her companion stopped, a tug on her arm threaded through his pulling her to a halt also.

"What makes you think he did?" She frowned, letting her arms fall to her side. Cloud took her hands between his gloved ones.

"You seem... I don't know how to explain it... Like you're hiding something terrible."

She lowered her head, gazing at her shoes. "There's nothing to tell. I think he had to leave town. It was for the best that..." Fighting for words, she cast her eyes about the sparsely populated square, picking out the sounds around her. The bubble of a fountain, the shouts of tourists, taking pictures over by the monument, and the click of a woman's heels. Tifa searched for the source, her brow creasing.

"I just wanted to say that-"

Tall, her elegant legs bare, despite the cold, shoulder-length blonde curls framing a beautiful, pale face. "Scarlett?" Ice blue eyes met Tifa's, and for an instant the woman's expression shifted. No—perhaps the features were similar but Scarlett couldn't be here, of all places... Could she? "Scarlett, stop!"

The heels gave one last harsh click, before the woman pivoted on them, facing away from her.

"Tifa, it's probably not Scarlett... Isn't she in Costa?" The woman started walking deliberately away from them, no sign that she had heard Tifa's addresses. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you-"

"Cloud, wait here!" Aware of his eye rolling, she ignored it, hitching up the hem of her dress and doing her best to keep up with her quarry. Once she was a suitable distance away from Cloud, she felt it safe to speak.

"Scarlett I just want to know if... If Vincent is alright." She spoke at a level that would be impossible for her to hear from so far away, yet she stalled, weight resting on one elegant leg.

"I will find you alone." Scarlett's cheek was a smooth ivory in the moonlight, turned only vaguely in Tifa's direction. "You were mistaken," She said loudly, her voice thick with a Russian accent. "Perhaps we met in another life!" The woman Scarlett had suddenly shifted into laughed, though it rang empty, her eyes reflecting the streetlight's glow. She bowed her head politely, before turning and stalking into the shadows.

"Not Scarlett, then, I assume?" Cloud was at her side, his hands inserted roughly into his coat pockets, face turned up to the skies.

"No." Tifa lied, swallowing hard, aware of how thick her tongue suddenly felt in her mouth. "You wanted to say something earlier?"

"Well, Yes..." He stalled, casting his eyes about him, as though searching for a distraction. "I... well, we've known each other a long time now, haven't we?"

"Yes..." She answered slowly, unsure of where he intended the conversation to go, and not liking it one bit.

"I knew I'd miss you, coming out here to the Nibel dance academy, but... Well, I've missed you a hell of a lot more than I thought."

"Well, thanks, I guess," She chuckled soflty, scooping her hair behind her ears. "I've missed you, also."

"I don't think you understand, Tifa." His gaze burned into hers, and suddenly, she did understand.

"Oh." Was all she could manage in response, the leather of her gloves creaking as she flexed her fingers nervously in her pockets.

"Is that all you can say?" He smiled gently, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Tifa felt a shift inside her, her chest filled with a sense of unease that was not her own.

"I don't know what else to say, Cloud. It's come as a shock to me, that's all."

"Really?" Frowning gently, he resting his hand on her shoulder. "I thought there was something between us. At the very least, towards the end."

"I don't know Cloud... I'm sorry. We were dance partners, and friends. It never occurred to me-"

"Well, now has it occurred to you?"

"I... Well, yes..."

He heaved a sigh, removing his hand from her to rub at his forehead. "God, I'm sorry. I've just realised that you're going back soon, and I won't see you for... well, heaven knows how long. The thought of sending you back to Costa alone tears me apart."

"I have friends, you know. And a job." She folded her arms across her chest, not liking the sudden pity he was displaying. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." _White, razor sharp teeth, sliding into her flesh life a hot knife through butter... and you played right into his hands, didn't you? You _wanted_ him, you needed him, but not as much as he wanted you..._

"I thought dancing was your dream. And you gave it all up for a man who didn't even stick around to thank you for it."

"Don't pretend you even know what is going on in my life, Cloud-"

"Oh, I know." His eyes went a little wider. "I know what you did. You gave up your dream, and you gave it to me instead."

"How-"

"Vincent wrote to me."

Her chest constricted, colour draining from her face fast enough to leave her dizzy. "He—he wrote to... to you?"

"He told me to take care of you, Tif." The blonde took a step closer, closing his gloves fingers about her wrist. "He didn't say where he was, or why he had left. But I know this—I won't desert you, if you chose me."

She swallowed a few times, her mouth failing to co-operate with her head. "Take me home." She managed at last, massaging her throat. "I need... I need to think."

He nodded, and they walked together in heavy silence towards the main street where Cloud hailed a taxi. Her mind heaving with all she had learned, the swaying of the taxi as it rounded bends did little to soothe her. She couldn't make sense of it all. She didn't know what to think, or what to do.

_I will find you alone._ Surprisingly, she felt that her visit couldn't come soon enough, despite the obvious possibility that she too could be...

"Where are you, Vincent?" She whispered, her breath cooling on the window. In an instant, it dissipated.

Fin.

All new readers, I know you are out there, as I've seen the constant influx of 'added to favourites' and 'added to story alert' emails—please review!


	10. A Visit

Lots and lots of people are, again, adding this to favourites, and leaving no reviews. I know I have been OOA recently, but hey, you've got to keep in touch and let me know how it's coming along. That way, I'll feel more inclined to write.

I am making this up as I go along. Let me know what you think.

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10. A Visit

The tattered book lay inauspiciously in her hands; the book she had felt compelled to bring with her. She'd never really been a huge fan of poetry, though with this book, she read it cover to cover compulsively, as though it would give her answers she didn't know the questions to.

She'd tried to return it; more of an excuse to knock upon his door, if not for a chance to glimpse his face in the sunlight and realise that everything had been a dream, a horrible, waking nightmare. Though nobody had answered. Not that she hadn't expected that, but it still hurt all the same.

So she'd kept it.

Now, in her bed in Cloud's Moscow loft, she pored over its tattered pages, not really seeing the words, enjoying the feel of the brittle yellowed paper on the pads of her fingertips. It was smooth, the scent conjuring a jumble of indistinct memories.

She'd neglected to close the shutters; the moonlight poured in uninterrupted through the huge loft window, bathing her in its magnificent gleam. She could make out the distinct shadows, cast by the sporadically placed furniture in Cloud's apartment. The whole place carried his scent, conjuring his face into her mind at a time she least wanted it there. Since when had he loved her? A sister, he had said once. Had it ever been just that kind of love?

It made her sick, even angry; he just had to go and pick the worst time, didn't he? The rational part of her mind scorned the other, more accommodating half; at least he was human, for crying out loud. She should count her losses, and take whatever the hell she could from this. Though in the latter's depths, she wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with Cloud, too. Werewolf, perhaps? Or even some kind of zombie...

She caught her sudden burst of laughter in her cupped palm, drawing her legs towards her chest, draping the heavy blankets around her shoulders. What would her mother have said to this? Choosing dance over a more stable career, choosing to live far away from home, rather than stay where she knew, choosing a vampire, who hungered for her in ways she didn't understand, instead of a normal man...

Sighing, she set the tattered poetry book down to one side, letting the rough cover slide over her smooth palm as she released it. The shadows in the room danced, the boughs of the trees that lined the street outside caught by a sudden strong wind. Shuffling out of bed towards to window, covers still draped about her, she watched the silent street down below. Not a soul stalked the streets at this hour, though that did nothing to deter the anticipation of her promised visit.

After struggling with the catches on the windows, she managed to push one open wide enough to admit a person. Ignoring the sudden gust of cold air, she settled down on the wooden floor, shrugging the blankets closer about her, and waited.

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She couldn't say how long she had been sat there, though judging from the discomfort in her limbs, she guessed that she must have dozed off. Glancing bleary eyed at the clock, she realised that two hours had passed. That noted, it only came as half a shock to find a female form silhouetted against the window. Scarlett seemed to be a woman of her word, after all.

"I cannot find him." She said, not turning. Tifa hauled herself rather unceremoniously to her feet, shivering from the sudden exposure to the frigid air, though due to her uncertainty about Scarlett's intentions and disposition, she dare not approach closer by way of closing the window. "He has closed himself to me. I do not know where to look."

Tifa said nothing, moistening her lips nervously. She noted the angry lines of bloody tears staining Scarlett's otherwise ivory, flawless cheeks, black in the darkness. What could she say to a vampire who had lost... whatever he was to her.

"I sense your fear, and I do not condone you for it. Vincent and I... we misled you. Though know that it was I who encouraged him to... pursue his interests in you. I only wanted to see him happy once more." The blonde, in all her ethereal beauty turned to face her, crystal irises glowing out of the gloom. "I do not know where else to turn. Vincent means everything to me. I need to ask you for your help." She closed the window gently, and Tifa felt suddenly trapped.

"Help?" She managed to choke, raising her eyebrows. The all powerful, perfect creature before her wanted to ask the weak, impermanent human for help?

"He may have shut you out, too... but if he thought you were in trouble... he might-"

"No, Scarlett," She shook her head abruptly, near ebony hair tumbling into her eyes. "I don't think I can. Vincent is... He _bit_ me." Unconsciously, she rubbed at her unblemished throat, unaware of how Scarlett's gaze lingered there long after her fingertips had fallen away.

"I know. But you have to understand... We need to feed to survive... without it, we would perish. And some people have a certain... essence."

"A what?"

"An essence. A smell, if you will. It marks you, allows us to sense you from miles away, if it is strong enough. It is... irresistible to some of those among our kind who are less experienced with restraint."

"And I have an essence?"

"Oh yes." Scarlett was suddenly behind her, tugging away her makeshift cocoon. Fingers with an iron grip turned her body around, hands colder than even hers. Piercing eyes bored into hers, framed in a tragically beautiful way by her tainted tears. "For Vincent to have lasted so long for his age... is a testament to his love for you."

"His love?" Her voice was a whisper, though she did not doubt Scarlett would have any trouble hearing. In fact, she wondered what the limits were to her superhuman abilities.

"Yes." The blonde's features softened, considering her tenderly, though her grip around her upper arms did not loosen. "For the first time in over a hundred years, Vincent opened his eyes. And he saw you. Your essence ensnared his thoughts, his dreams... and from that moment, there was nothing else for him, save you."

"But he bit me, Scarlett." Her voice a near whimper now, struggling to contain the sudden upsurge of feeling within her, upon recollection of all the suppressed emotions.

"Tifa. Look at me." The brunette reluctantly raised her amber eyes to meet the blonde's, her rising hysteria suddenly calmed by the icy gaze. "In the state of mind you took him to, it becomes very difficult for a vampire as inexperienced as he to resist someone such as you."

She prayed that the darkness would hide her flush. Scarlett's pupils dilated rapidly. "My god... no wonder he fell apart. When the blood rises to your face in such a way..."

Cold fingertips swept her hair aside, and Tifa was frozen in place. Scarlett traced the line of Tifa's lips delicately, focussing wholly on her task. Tifa's chest started to burn from holding her breath. Then without warning, cool lips were pressed upon hers in a delicate, fragrant kiss. She blinked a few times in surprise, unable to comprehend Scarlett's actions, battling with the confusion in her belly; the urge to push her away, and a deeper primal urge to pull her closer.

Then thankfully for her, Scarlett withdrew, expression perfectly impassive. Sucking in on her bottom lip, Scarlett seemed to relish the taste, breathing in deeply, savouring. "I believe that will be enough for me to protect you. No need to drink from you."

Tifa struggled to find her voice. "You mean... we are connected, now?" She folded her arms across her chest defensively.

"Not as strongly as you are to him, but yes. It will allow me to look out for you, while you are here."

"Why should you need to?"

Scarlett released her arms at last, crossing over to the window once more, pupils returning to their constricted state. "There are ancient beings here, older than even I. And you have been marked—not in ways you can see, mind." She added, noticing Tifa caressing her throat subconsciously. "You may stand out even more than you normally do."

"How can I help you find Vincent?"

"Well, you see, if he is in Spain, which I believe he is, he will not sense you this far away. If he does, there isn't much he will be able to do for you. Our best hope, once there, is to trick him into thinking you are in danger... or there is another option, which is more likely to work." Tifa did not miss the flash of excitement behind Scarlett's usually carefully maintained expression.

"Which is..."

"Make him angry."

"How could we do that?"

"You have been marked by him—and so you belong to him, in a sense. But if someone were to... violate that..."

It hurt to swallow. "You mean bite me?"

"Perhaps that would be a start. You see, I imagine that his disappearance has a lot to do with your protection. But in feeding from you, it will be the exact opposite outcome he would want. And will hopefully bring him out of hiding, and into a jealous rage."

"What if I don't want to see him again?" The tremor in her voice threatening to betray her, Tifa tried her best to assemble a stern facade.

"You don't have to. Help me, and with Vincent in my care once more, I can take him as far away from you as you want."

"And if I don't want help you?"

Scarlett raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, the shadows playing on her face as she half-turned towards her. "It makes our little plan all the more effective."

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If Cloud sensed Tifa's distraction the following morning at breakfast, he made no comment. He probably thought it was to do with their conversation the previous evening, and most definitely not one involving a vampire. Her food bore no taste, and it took all the effort she could muster to finish her toast, thanking Cloud rather emptily before excusing herself to the shower.

Locking the bathroom door may have been an automatic action, but she noted her continual need to recheck the lock. Paranoia was following her now, if not anything else, and it would seem that it wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. She selected her clothes without interest, wishing that more than anything she could go back to her apartment in Costa and lock herself away for a little while; long enough to convince herself that it had all been a terrible joke, a sick and twisted dream. No matter how improbable it was that she might just wake up in bed, the last few weeks turning out to be a nightmare, she wished for it with all her might.

Cloud was taking her to Nibelheim dance academy to meet some of his friends and to watch a rehearsal—at least she would be able to sit in one of the plush red velvet seats and just lose herself in the dance and the music for a little while. It had always been an escape for her, at one time. She hoped it could be again.

She noted that the days were incredibly short here, during the Russian winter time. That fact was frightening enough, though only because she knew exactly what sort of things haunted the hours after sundown. Thankfully though, the sun was shining, albeit weakly, and she drew what warmth she could from it.

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Seated amidst the sea of empty velvet chairs, she watched the dancers upon their elegant stage. The music reached her ears, though it did not reach her heart. In fact, she watched with detached resentment. Her limbs were far to heavy now, weighed down by her worries, and the nightmares that plagued her waking hours as well as her fitful slumber. She felt that her feet could not carry her so elegantly, nor so swiftly any longer. Her purpose and her passions were lost to her, hidden amongst the ruins of her dreams.

Tilting her head back, she focused her wandering gaze upon the illustriously painted ceilings—the golden arabesque swirls, the cherubs and the divine scenes all seemed suddenly and hideously out of place here, in this cold, yet marvellous setting. Pretty much like herself. She was a single blossom flower, flourishing just a little out of sync with the others, destined to watch them grow, resplendent in their prime, as she faded into nothing.

"Penny for your thoughts, Tifa?"

She jerked upright from her previously reclined position, lost in reflection. Not exactly sure how she did not notice the arrival of her unfamiliar viewing companion, she took a moment to examine him. A pale, beautiful man with a mane of sable hair, and startling eyes of green. His eyes were framed by light, bruise like shadows, though this didn't detract from his otherwise pleasing demeanour. At first, she would have tagged him as one of them, though there was something about him that made her question her judgement.

"Who are you, and how do you know who I am?" She asked cautiously, shuffling a little away from him, her limbs poised, ready to run. She examined his clothing- nothing too old fashioned, she noted. A smart high-necked jumper and some straight legged pants.

He chuckled softly, apparently content with watching the dancers. "Someone you shouldn't worry about. Scarlett sent me. She thought it might be, ah, _reassuring_, if someone were watching your back. Or should I say, your-"

"My neck, yes." She finished for her, remaining wary of him, though he laughed easily. "You still haven't told me your name. How did you get here? It's the middle of the day. Or are you... human?"

"My name is Kane. And I am as close enough to being human as can be... without actually being one."

"I don't follow..."

"My family have been aware of Scarlett's kind for centuries, and in exchange for some of their power, we have done their bidding. For we can do what they as Night stalkers can only dream of."

"Walk in the sun?" She assumed, not wanting to ask what exactly it was that Vampires had to offer.

"Exactly. And so, here I am." He removed his attentions from the stage, and fixed them upon her.

"Well, I guess it's nice to have a friendly face around who isn't trying to kill me."

"I am to return to Costa with you, though I shall at least remain in Scarlett's old residence, too give you some space."

"How courteous of you," She said, rather sourly, though it was not intentionally directed at him. Damn Scarlett—why couldn't she have just said this the previous night, instead of pulling off weird stunts like... _kissing_ her for crying out loud! This whole thing was getting weirder, and more frustrating, and more than anything else, she wished she could be at home, in her apartment, watching a cheesy movie with Susanna. Anything for a little monotony—dull yet safe monotony.

"I shall await you there, miss Lockheart."

"Thank you, Kane."

Her viewing partner rose with ease and grace, passing out of the shadows and into the void of darkness which surrounded her, no longer in sight, though he remained in her mind. She watched him go, gnawing on her lip, fighting the building sense of intrigue that threatened to overwhelm her caution. _Trust no-one, Tifa. Look where it got you last time._

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_To be continued..._


	11. Chandraja

Chandraja means, in Sanskrit, Daughter of the moon. Considering the tail end of this chapter, and the imagery I wanted to create, I feel it is an apt title. I really feel I have come back around to this story- I really got a lot of enjoyment out of researching a few things, to get my facts right. Plus, a few people said they especially enjoyed the history side.

So, here you go. Enjoy, and as always, review.

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11. Chandraja

Toward the end of her stay in Russia, she'd found herself really looking forward to returning home. She longed for the simple comfort of her tiny apartment, to be able to throw open a window without freezing to death, to able to forget her worries- so many tens of thousands of feet above the Earth, she was out of harm's way, free to think about whatever the hell she wanted.

Cloud had not broached the subject of his affection for her again- he must have picked up on her aversion to such. It made her uncomfortable to think back on all the times she'd changed in front of him, all of the intimate dances they had performed together. Not once had it occurred to her that he cared for her that way. In fact, she was almost positive that he never did, or at least, not until he'd gone to Nibel. Maybe it was a guilt thing; after all, she had literally made his dreams come true, by surrendering her place to him. It had not been her intention for him be beholden to her; she hadn't even wanted him to know about it.

But why had Vincent written to him? She recalled the conversation she'd had with him, the night of the final performance. He couldn't comprehend why she had chosen not to dance. Later that night, she had admitted to him the reason. The reason she had been telling herself wasn't the _real_ reason. She wanted to stay because of Vincent. It almost made her laugh to think back at how stupid she had been, to miss all the signs, the warnings that he himself had given her.

_If you were any wiser you would stay away from me._ He'd told her, beautiful and resplendent, yet tortured, beneath the lights upon the opera house's stage. And she'd certainly not gotten any wiser, had she? Though he had resisted so many times... only to fall at the final hurdle.

Was she really angry with him? No. A part of her warned her to stay away from him, and all of his kind; Scarlett, and even this Kane, whoever or whatever he might be. But, the part of her which had fallen for the man behind the veil of insecurity and secrecy wanted nothing more than to see him again. Had that one night, the night that had led to his disappearance, been a terrible accident? She recalled the look of horror, the angry red tears that etched lined down his otherwise ivory cheeks. He was as horrified as she. He knew what he was, and now she did too.

He never meant for it to happen. None of it. He hadn't sought her out. They met purely by coincidence, and from that moment, it had snowballed into this... confusion.

Waiting for her luggage in the stifling heat of Costa airport, she pushed all thoughts of Vincent from her mind. She was going home. Scarlett was out looking for him presumably, and she didn't expect to see him again. She didn't have to worry about him. Perhaps it was time she started to be selfish.

At the familiar sight of her suitcase, she stepped forward to retrieve it, though a pale hand got there first. "Excuse me, I think you've- oh, Kane! It's you."

The sable haired man smiled, displaying perfectly white teeth. He looked dashing in a black polo shirt and jeans, his jacket slung casually over his arm. He wouldn't need it here, at least not in the summer months.

"Forgot about me so soon?" He laughed warmly, indicating that she should start walking. He had taken both their cases, and did not seem to be struggling with the weight. "I was seated a few rows in front of you, but you seemed to be... daydreaming. I thought it best to let you be."

She realised perhaps for the first time that he had a wonderfully smooth, eastern European accent, which had perhaps gone over her head on their first meeting. Not that she had been paying much attention to anything, with so much on her mind. She was looking forward to hearing the drawling Spanish accents of the locals again. It reminded her of home.

"I hope you don't mind, but I was hoping on spending my first day back home on my own. It's been a while since I've had the luxury of thinking straight." She gave a roll of her eyes, guiding him toward the airport's exit expertly.

"Of course. Though I would hope that when the mood takes you, you would accompany me for dinner. I had hoped to get to know you a little better, if I am to be protecting you."

"Ah, yes. Of course..." She hailed a cab outside, smiling at the warmth of the cabbie's greeting. She replied fluently in Spanish, reciting her desired destination. "Perhaps we should get it over with sooner. I mean, then I can concentrate on relaxing and forgetting about the whole... vampire business."

Kane laughed again, handing the cabbie their suitcases to place in the cab's trunk. "Well, you're certainly forward, and to the point. I like that. Dinner tonight, then."

She glanced at her watch. "Just give me time to take a bath, and get changed. I'll call a cab for you, and meet you at a little place I know."

"Excellent."

She was grateful that he decided to seat himself in the front of the cab, to give her some space- she had a sinking feeling that she was going to really start needing it soon, with the way things were going. Why did she need protecting, anyway? Surely Vincent was no danger to her?

She shook herself mentally. Stop _worrying about it_, she scalded. _And enjoy dinner with this handsome stranger while you still can._

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Immersing herself in hot water had never felt so good, she thought, as she lay sedentary in the bath. The windows thrown open to admit the warm Costa sea breeze, she almost dozed off to the sound of the waves, closer now due to the afternoon tide. Her flesh suitably scrubbed clean and pink, and stepped out of the water and wrapped herself in her softest towel, before throwing herself down onto her freshly made bed. Inhaling the scent of her fabric softner, her body melting into her bed, she almost found herself falling asleep.

She'd taken a long bath, knowing that there wouldn't be much point in eating until after sundown. Local restaurants began service at around seven in the evening, when most of the locals would go out to dinner. Nobody could really enjoy the biggest meal of the day under the full heat of the sun.

Seated at her balcony, she let her hair dry naturally for a while as she watched the sun set beyond the cliffs. If she wanted to look, she could distinguish the outline of the cliff top house she had visited a handful of times before, though then it was occupied by another. But she didn't want to look, and so it remained invisible to her. Instead, she watched the sea glower, like the water were truly aflame.

When the brilliance had faded to a tinge of peach at the horizon, she shifted her body on stiff limbs back inside toward her bedroom. Choosing simple attire- she wasn't going to dinner to impress anyone, that was for sure- she dressed and styled her hair dispassionately, suddenly wondering where the gaping hole in her chest had come from.

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"I must say, I do enjoy Spain." He told her, lounging in his chair, sipping at the vintage red wine he had ordered for both of them. "And I also must compliment you on your choice of restaurant."Their plates were empty, waiting to be cleared away by the waitress.

"Thank you." She said humbly, bowing her head. "And thank you for paying. I didn't expect you to do so."

"Ah, a man does not take a lady out and not pay, whether dinner was for business or pleasure." He chuckled into his wine.

Tifa didn't want to admit it, but she had enjoyed herself thoroughly. Upon sitting down at a quiet table out on the porch of the little taverna, Kane had answered all of her questions with blatant honesty. He told her he had met Vincent once or twice over the years, and it seemed he had little liking for Kane. Kane himself had a tolerance for Vincent's kind, though he warned her that not all of them were as docile as he. That caused a twitch in her shoulders, and she had suddenly found herself sobbing into a napkin.

She told him about how guilty she felt; he was a good man, or vampire at least, and it had been her fault that he had succumbed to her. She should have listened to his warnings, she should never had fallen for him.

Kane had shushed her, and told her that Vincent was only as weak as any other man, that he was strong for a vampire of his age. If he hadn't wanted this to happen, he would have left her to her fate that night, on the boulevard. If he didn't want to put her at risk, he would never have invited her to his concert.

He was just as guilty of weakness, as she was.

After dispelling some of her worries, and after ordering their food, he told her that he was able to detect of a vampire was in the vicinity. Hopefully, his presence would act as a deterrent to them, though he admitted he wouldn't be much of a match for an older vampire.

"I feel a lot better, now someone has given me answers," She admitted, reclining a little in her seat as she enjoyed her wine. "And that there is another human who knows about, well, _them_. At least I know I'm not going crazy."

"You're nowhere near crazy. And feel free to ask me anything. I'll answer as best I can."

"Well, how do you know Scarlett?"

"Ahaha, I was worried you might ask me that," For the first time, Kane looked a little abashed. "She came to me asking for help. Vincent was newly made then, and was proving a little more difficult that she had thought."

"Difficult?" Tifa titled her head to one side, considering him.

"I assumed she meant difficult to control. And of course if that were the case, she would have come to the wrong person. But what she really meant, was he was having trouble accepting his fate. He wouldn't feed."

"That's certainly very interesting. I would have thought... with all that happened..."

"Well, indeed, it would make more sense that way. But, she needed blood. From me. Vincent would only take it from her, and even then, it wasn't without a fight. I became a sort of... blood bank for her. But this was decades ago." He waved a hand nonchalantly.

Tifa almost choked on her wine. "_Decades_? How old are you exactly?"

Kane sniggered, his green eyes sparkling in the light from their table's solitary candle. "How old do I look?"

"Thirty?" She guessed, her brows furrowed as she regarded him within the candle's sphere of luminance.

"Well, then I am thirty. Biologically at least. You recall me telling you my family have worked alongside Vincent's kind for centuries. It doesn't come without it's benefits."

"Immortality?"

"Not quite. But, it certainly slows the aging process. I am in truth, in my seventies." She cursed rather violently, bringing a dry grimace to his face. "So eloquently put."

She had the graciousness to blush. "Sorry. You have to understand that for someone like me, all of this is... well, hard to accept."

"For a person like you? Let us change the subject, and turn our attentions toward you, Tifa. I am afraid that my knowledge of you is rather... limited." She smiled, and promised to indulge him on the way home. "I shall look forward to it. But now I believe it is time to order dessert."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"I would very much like to see you dance, one day." He told her as they arrived at the entrance to her apartment building. She turned, keys in hand.

"I haven't danced in a month or so. I fear I will have forgotten it all."

"We shall see." His eyes twinkled again, and she found that her lips softened into a smile almost automatically.

"Well, thanks again, Kane, and I shall hope to see you soon."

"Indeed. Until next time, Miss Lockheart." He swept her hand up in his and kissed her knuckles softly, before giving her an ironic bow, and turning on his heel, hands in pockets.

Letting herself into her apartment, she found that her smile didn't seem to want to shift from her lips. Shedding her clothes in the dark, she crawled in-between her sheets, sighing at the cool contact upon her flushed skin. She drifted into an easy slumber, for once her sleep devoid of troubled dreams.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hundreds of miles away, the wind blows harshly over the mountain landscape. It whistles in and out of the ruins of a long deserted town, rattling the remnants of the wooden shutters at the hollow windows. The sky is clear, and a full moon beats down upon the ghost town. Nowhere to hide, except the shadows. Though there is nobody in sight to hide, or to be hidden from, save for a lone fox, searching for rabbit holes. She needs to feed her young, though as she senses the intruder, hidden amongst the shadow of an old church, she thinks that it would be best to try her luck elsewhere.

The shadow leaps, and the fox only has a moment to emit one last yelp before her life is extinguished. After a few moments, the figure lets the carcass fall to the ground, dead, blood weeping from a wound in her neck. He does not move for a time, perhaps considering the ruins as though they hold some relevance to him. After an hour he moves, slowly, yet silently, making his way through the ruins of what was once a tiny Spanish village. He is not looking for anything. Not here anyway. He has a long way to go before he reaches his destination, before he finds what he is looking for. Even here, in the mountains, so far away, he can almost smell it.

He had hours left before he must take shelter. He would make good ground, if only he could find a decent meal to fill his veins... No matter. Slow and steady it must be.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Scarlett wakes as the sun is sinking, though inside, she is safe from the deadly rays. The shutters are tight shut. Soon, she will be able to use the moon for a guide, but for now, the lamp must suffice. She crosses to the dressing table and lights the oil lamp to better examine her face.

Not much has changed. In four centuries, she still looks the same, though on the inside, she has come a long way. At nineteen, she was considered to be her father's most beautiful daughter. As rich as he was, he needn't have married her for financial gain, though her father was not one to allow her beauty to pass through his hands for nought. As a successful British tradesman in India, he stood to gain strong alliances and perhaps even land, if he were to marry his daughter into another colonist family.

As a young, and foolish woman, she dreamed of marrying a handsome colonist's son, with whom she would have many children, and who would have the most magnificent house with servants to attend to her every need. He would be able to provide her with everything she could ever want- dresses, jewels, wonderful furniture and paintings from all over the world.

Though the longer her father seemed to wait, the worse his trading company seemed to be doing. There were reports of piracy, taking down his ships, along with the precious cargo they bore. Her father was losing money, steadily, but surely. Some of the offers he made to families for marriage were rejected, in light of this, and Scarlett started to fear she would never marry, and her dream of living a life of never wanting would not become a reality.

To relieve herself of the oppression the household, she took her younger sister Violet out for a walk around the grounds of their beautiful Indian home. They stopped to admire Scarlett's favourite things along the way; the magnificent carp from China, drifting lazily around the pond, the elephants that could be seen, with local men riding upon their backs, and even the seamstress's workshop, where she kept luxurious bolts of fabric, ready to be stitched into garments. Though none of these things brought her pleasure today.

Violet did not understand it; after all, she was only eleven, Scarlett thought as she dismissed her sister's inquiries about her mood. Though she could tell she would be just as, if not more beautiful that she was, with her ringlets of white-blonde hair, her father's beautiful indigo eyes and with such a talent for music and singing. Violet's future, though, did not look so bright, if things were to continue this way.

With a sigh, she sent Violet back into the house and head out into the evening heat. She took a more leisurely pace this time in her perambulation about the grounds, examining the intricate tropical flowers that grew here, in the humid climate, watching the hummingbirds flitting around in the sky with detached reverence. Not knowing how long this place would be her home for was torture.

Her tensions nowhere near alleviated, her feet carried her out of the grounds of her home, and onto the main street.

She recalls even now, that that was her greatest mistake.

At that hour, few carriages rattled up and down the dust track, though she did not notice this, crossing over with her skirts hitched up over to the other side, toward the river.

That's where she liked it best- she'd had many a fond memory with her family down by the river; fishing with her father, or perhaps her uncles, and when she got older, he taught her how to become a lady in society. He taught her about business, and finances, about trade and about politics. Her mother would play with her hair beneath the parasol, or tell her wonderful stories about her childhood. She would play cards with her two sisters there, too, on many lazy summer days. She dearly loved Violet and Amber, and people would often remark how lucky her father was to have three beautiful, fair haired daughters. In a land such as India, it truly was a rare thing to see.

The grass is damp from the afternoon rains, and she notes that the housemistress will surely be cross if she gets grass stains on her suede lace up boots. Her best ones, at that.

The sun is almost gone now, and she wanders along the river's edge, watching the local insects drift around on the Indian breeze, inhaling scent of damp soil and the fragrant scent of orchids and jasmine from the gardens carried to her. The moon has risen now, and lights her way. She does not fear what the shadows might be hiding from her.

She is thankful that her last memories of India were happy ones.

A woman in that period is not afraid to be alone, especially so close to her family home, and so it comes to no surprise to her to spot another walker in the distance, heading her way. She slows when they approach her, calling good evening over the hum of the insects, and the calling of the night birds.

"I have been waiting to meet you for a long time, Ms Baudelaire." He addresses her by her name, and she frowns a little. She has never seen him before, and his voice, thick with the beautiful local accent is unfamiliar to her.

"I am sorry, Sir, I fear we have never met before. If so, I apologise, for I do not recall your face." She tried her best not to appear rude as she leans a little closer to study his face. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, though she could not be sure in the dim light of the evenfall. His face is clean shaven, his curling hair scooped neatly behind his ears. His attire tells her that he is most likely of noble birth. Perhaps one of her father's trading associates.

"You shall recall it for the rest of your days from this one, my dear."

All she remembers from then, before she wakes again, is his teeth, how sharp they were, piercing her elegant neck, how slick her skin became with her spilled blood. And how fast he moved, how strong his grip was upon her body...

Scarlett feels the goosebumps rise on her skin recalling the events of that night, hundreds of years before. Khalid, the man who made her, was long dead. She had waited over a hundred years to repay what he had taken her from with his life. He called her his Aatmaja. Meaning, daughter. Or Harijatha, meaning the fair haired one. She always found it ironic that his name, meant immortal.

Every night, before she slept, she remembered his name, and his face. As well as everything that he had taken from her.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

To be continued...


	12. The Silver Knife

_I actually did a little research for this chapter- the Spanish village is a real place, and it looks beautiful! I've been meaning to get this chapter down for a while, but I haven't found the time. I've since chalked up where I want to go with this in my head, so all-in-all I am feeling quite positive._

_Please leave me a review, newbies and oldies alike!_

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12. The Silver Knife

In the mountain village of Siurana, all is quiet. A local village girl, who had been watching the sun set over the mountains, turns and begins her walk back to her home across town. Heading along the narrow streets, she can smell fresh bread, salted fish, and garlic; a myriad of scents of the families cooking within their homes. The gentle glow of lamps and candles permeates the darkness a little, and illuminates the uneven paving beneath her feet.

She glances up as she passes the town's monument; a worn stone cross, built to commemorate dead from thousands of years past. She doesn't really remember the history surrounding it, and she chuckles to think what her grandmother would say if she knew. Though she knows the history of the house she is to pass soon, all too well. The horrific events that occurred there are still engraved into the memories of the townsfolk, though over the decades, passing tourists dismissed it all as village wife superstition.

She cannot ignore the instinctual urge to hurry her steps as she approaches the house. A short walk out of town, it stands alone, an empty stone shell, the window shutters bare and almost completely rotted away. The doorways and windows are black. No lights have been lit for near a century. Sometimes, if the breeze blows just right, it whispers through the empty house, and she could have sworn on more than one occasion she heard piano music.

The Spanish girl stops dead in her tracks, more out of surprise than fear. A man stands staring up at the house from the footpath, contemplating it. She has never seen him before, though by his dress and his lack of luggage she didn't put him down as a tourist.

"Buenas noches señor," She calls out politely. Her approach had not been hushed any, though her address seems to take him by surprise. She wonders briefly if he does not speak Spanish. "I sorry, sir, you lost?"

"mis apologías, señorita. Fui perdido durante un momento." He apologised for his lack of attentiveness, in a beautiful, almost archaic dialect that she was most familiar with, though she notes that few still speak it, her grandmother being one of them.

"You do not fear the house?" She asks, taking a moment to rather bravely face the place she has regarded with much trepidation since she was a little girl. Studying it, she noted just how lonely it seemed, sat back amongst the overgrown fig trees. "Nobody has lived here since its last resident went missing over a century ago. They say it is cursed."

He smiles dryly. "I know. It is not the building that is cursed, but the occupant."

"The occupant?" She does not follow him, and frowns, tossing her ebony hair aside to better view her companion.

"Me."

She pales as she understands, marking the sign of the cross on her body before hurrying away, turning back only once to find him still standing before the house. "El padre perdido, protéjame."

"Lost?" She had called him 'The Lost Father', asked him to protect her. He was certainly no longer lost, and he most definitely was not a father. As for protection, he could offer her none. Sighing, Vincent turns his back to the young woman and crossed the overgrown yard to the porch. The wood creaked under foot, the boards dried out and flaking.

He did not know what had drawn him here. He had burned the house where Lucia had been murdered decades ago, wanting to erase the nightmare from his mind. This house was only his retreat, where he had taken himself, and his dead wife's piano to live out his grief. The home where Scarlett had found him, and from where she had taken him.

Now, it was where he was hiding, though from what, he couldn't say. Tifa certainly wasn't going to be able to find him here, if she was looking at all. Scarlett would know, though. It would not be wise to linger here.

No matter. He had just one thing to do here.

Leaves littered the halls and rooms, long neglected and left to rot. He could hear the high-pitched cries of the house's newest inhabitants, the long-eared bats, nesting in the attic. They would not remain here after tonight. They must find a new home.

In the drawing room, the piano gleams in the moonlight. He marvels that nobody in the village noticed it's arrival. The wood is smooth beneath his fingertips, the keys gently tinkling as he brushes over them. The village shall hear one more song, before Lucia's lament is extinguished forever.

The music drifts out into the summer evening, and the young girl turns upon reaching the door to her home. Inhaling, she can taste the acrid scent of smoke.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hundreds of miles away, Tifa jerks awake, her skin drenched in sweat and moonlight, her breath coming and going in rapid bursts. Never had she dreamt so vividly before tonight. She had seen Lucia, the woman from the oil painting, except she was flesh and blood, not oil on canvas. Her smile had been so sweet, at least until she had burst into flame right before her eyes. Tifa's senses had been overwhelmed by the awful stench of burning human flesh and hair, her skin seared by the flames, before she woke up, scared and alone in her bedroom.

Still shaking, she placed her bare feet upon the floor, flinching at the cool of the tiles. She'd fallen asleep on the sofa, watching some monotonous soap opera. Stumbling into the bathroom, she blinked stupidly in the bursting light as she switched it on. In the mirror, her reflection stared back, grey and sweaty, fear etching lines in her face. Why had the dream unnerved her so much?

After splashing her face with cool water from the tap, she extinguished the light and made her way into her living room, seating herself rather rigidly on the sofa. Her arms wrapped tightly about her body, she felt rather paranoid and exposed, even in the safety of her own apartment. It crossed her mind to call Kane, but she dismissed the notion almost as soon as she birthed it. Calling him all because she'd had a nightmare seemed too much damsel-in-distress for her. She didn't want to appear weak and defenceless, though that fact was become all the more apparent by the second.

She was a sitting duck. What could these walls and doors and windows do to keep something out, if it wanted to hurt her bad enough? Her only protectors were an enhanced human named Kane, and a vampire whose whereabouts were unknown to her. Vincent didn't even figure into any of that, either.

Glancing up at her clock, she groaned inwardly on noting she'd only managed to grab a few hours sleep. And to make matters worse, she had to show her face at the bar tomorrow and fill Susanna in on her trip to Russia. The details would be edited of course- though she was curious as to what Susanna's take on Kane would be. Not to mention Cloud's revelation. Part of her would feel relieved afterward, she knew, finally able to get some things off her chest.

When the following evening came, Tifa was proud to say that she had managed to take a nap in the afternoon, and her sleep had been relatively undisturbed. She was still tired and suffering from jet lag, though, and so it was with heavy steps that she dragged herself toward the bar.

She soon forgot about her worries and her fatigue however. Susanna's enthusiasm at having her back, burst through her negativity bubble like a bright and shiny needle. Upon donning her apron, Tifa was assaulted with a barrage of questions; how was her trip, was the weather nice, was Moscow as beautiful as she thought- and before she knew it a few hours had passed of her shift.

Tifa had thought hard about how to let Susanna know about Kane. The story she had come with sounded valid enough to her, and upon it's telling, she was pleased to see that it was accepted by her friend. Although Vincent had departed, for reasons that were relatively unknown to Susanna, Scarlett remained in residence at his old house. Kane was merely an acquaintance of hers, who had come to stay, visiting from his home country. As for his occupation, Tifa made no lie- she did not know the truth of it herself, so it was easy enough to simply shrug at the inquiry.

"Is he handsome?" The blonde waitress asked, a faint smile gracing her lips as she reflexively polished the bar top.

Tifa nodded honestly, though she felt no blush rise to her cheeks to betray her. "He is handsome enough, though I've only met him once or twice. Besides, I'm not really looking for another relationship." She shrugged, turning to rearrange the bottles behind the bar. "Though I was thinking of inviting Scarlett to dinner or something. I've got a feeling that Vincent's sudden departure might have affected her more than I had first thought."

"I guess so," Susanna chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. "What were they anyway? It's not exactly the norm for two very attractive twenty-something's to live together and not be... you know, _involved_."

"I don't know," She answered honestly after taking an order from a patron. She mused over Susanna's words as she decanted measures of spirit into the cocktail shaker, raised it to her shoulder and gave it a vigorous jumble. "But I suppose I should try to find out."

In truth, there were other reasons for her wanting to become more acquainted with the vampire. For one, she might be able to answer some questions she had about Kane, and also of Vincent. Though she did not care to admit it out loud, Tifa's thoughts had been with the dark-haired musician more and more recently, and even more so poignantly following last night's dream.

"I think it's a good idea, Tif." Susanna sighed, resting her elbows on the bar once the patron had returned to their table with their drink. "She seemed like a nice enough woman."

"Hm." _Would you say that if you knew the truth?_

_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _

Tifa stared at her phone's display rather sceptically. Scarlett had given her contact details a while ago, but she had never really found cause to use them before now. Did all vampires have cell phones? Shrugging away her misgivings, she pressed dial before she could change her mind, and placed the phone against her ear.

Scarlett seemed enthusiastic about the idea of coming to Tifa's for dinner, and she laughed at Tifa's tentative enquiry about her food preferences. "Go on: amuse me." She had chuckled, before hanging up the phone. Frowning, Tifa went to bed, hands still sticky from the cocktail shaker, wondering what recipes containing blood she could find, and even stomach.

Mulling it over in bed, she recalled that Vincent had ordered wine, the first night they had met- perhaps she could find something to Scarlett's taste at the local wine cellar. Then she experienced a stroke of inspiration- meat could be cooked rare, especially steak- and she didn't know a single soul who didn't appreciate a good medium sirloin. And so the following day, cheered by her own stroke of genius, she traipsed around the market, selecting herbs with which she could season it with, and fresh vegetables she could serve with it. She wasn't about to take offence if her vampire dinner guest refused them, though- she was all the more aware of her proffered meals, and would not wish to tempt her to deviate towards them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Khalid had absolutely forbidden her from returning to her family residence. Being the type of woman she had been prior to her transformation, she had wailed in protest, a void in her chest aching, longing to be filled by the love of her father and her sisters, once again.

She didn't know exactly where she was at first, when she had awoken. Had she been taken out of India completely? As her senses returned to her with increased potency, she realised she could not be too far; the heady scent of damp from the wetlands prevailed on the air, carried to her by the faint Indian summer breeze. She could hear the clamour of people at market, the grunts and calls of animals and humans alike.

With each passing day, she grew stronger, and it seemed that even though her geography had been her poorest subject as a girl, she seemed to simply _know_ where she could find her family. It seemed, however, that the ties a vampire had to her maker were much stronger, and could not be undone by mere defiance. She wanted nothing more than to kill him, and return home, if not only to let her family know that she was safe, before she was cast out for what she truly was.

A vampire. A monster who craved the blood of humans to survive. Khalid fed her lies, as though he knew her desire to betray him. Her sisters would not understand, her father would deem her a ghost, an abomination, even an imposter, and he would try to kill her. And for almost a year, she believed him.

Until one night, out hunting with Khalid, somebody recognised her; the man had been no more than a merchant, who traded with her father, though he must have known she was missing from home. He implored her to flee, return home, for her father had not been the same since the night that she had vanished. His company was on the verge of collapse, and her mother had become a recluse, refusing to leave her quarters. That was all she had managed to learn, before Khalid had discovered him, and silenced him forever.

The grief assaulted her all over again, renewing her desire to return home. Only there was just one thing standing in the way.

Khalid had taken her maidenhood from her, prior to her draining. To protect her, he'd said. No point in going through all eternity as a virgin, for the flesh would only heal anew, and she would suffer the pain each and every time she lay with a man. He had not lay with her again, since her awakening. She knew enough about men, if that was what she could categorise him as, to know that he wanted her to want _him_. So, one night, she planned on using his weakness against him.

The mansion he owned in India was a splendid one, far surpassing that of her father's house. He had given her freedom of it, and within she had discovered treasures beyond her wildest dreams. When she took the time out of lamenting the loss of her mortality, and had the tolerance, she would listen to Khalid tell her about them. Golden statues from Africa, rubies the size of fists from the mines of India, all the gold and diamonds she could want, rich bolts of silk from China, jade and spices too. The library was something to behold on its own; she would spend her waking hours, reading by candlelight, before she must return to her darkened room to pass the daylight ones.

One night, whilst her maker was entertaining downstairs, she entered her own personal dressing room. Since she had glimpsed the merchant in the streets of the Indian city of Mumbai, she had been planning this day. Khalid had bestowed upon her, her own personal dressmaker to attend to her fashion requirements, though until now, she had no desire to take anything from him. She was pretending to be Khalid's wife, and so she asked her dress maker for some intimate silk garments to be made to her size, in beautiful plum silks. Several days later, after sunset, the seamstress had returned, presenting Scarlett with her requests.

It was going to be a shame that such beautiful garments would soon be tainted beyond repair by Khalid's blood.

"I received your summon." Khalid announced, stepping into the room he had allocated for her. Casting his dark eyes about the room, he found it apparently devoid of her presence, though he detected she was stood behind the dressing screens. "My dearest Scarlett, is there anything I can do for you?"

Stepping out from behind the screen, she was secretly pleased to see that her maker's eyes went wide with shock. The deep plum of the silks was a direct contrast to the creamy white of her skin and her fair hair. She had cinched her bodice tightly around her midline to accentuate her comely breasts and her curved hips. Now he was under her spell.

All it had taken, was a kiss. In his lust-induced haze, he had not noticed the knife, clutched in her iron grasp beneath the pillows. Had he been more aware, it would have been so easy for him to overpower her, but by the time the dagger was embedded in his chest right up to the jewel-encrusted hilt, it was far too late. She'd aimed for the heart; alive or no, it had to count for something. To make sure, she pulled it out, and drove it back into him, her breath coming laboured as she repeated her movement again, and again and again... Her pupils dilated in the blood frenzy, her fangs fully extended and cutting into her lip, she allowed it to consume her, feeding from her master for the last time, drinking the blood from his freshly bleeding wounds, laughing long and loud as she did so, almost tenderly kissing the deep gashed in the flesh.

Then, feeling oddly calm, she had bathed, rising his blood from her skin before choosing a dress to wear before her father. The dress she had vanished in seemed like an apt choice- the seamstress had repaired that too, for this very occasion. Her father would be more inclined to believe it was truly her stood before him.

Judging by the moon, it was just short of ten o' clock. By now, her father would be reading in his study at the topmost floor of his quarters, the shutters thrown wide to admit any whisper of a breeze. As sure as she had predicted, from the sprawling lawns of the gardens, she could see the tell-tale glow of an oil lamp, burning away in the top-most window. It saddened her to see the gardens were in disrepair, though she had expected as much, without money to pay the gardener.

In two leaps, she had scaled the building, landing silent as a ghost upon the study's balcony. The blood of her maker pulsed through her veins, making her stronger.

"Father." She called softly to him, her heart melting at the sight of him, more withered than a year gone past, bent double over his accounts. He was wearing his blue velvet evening jacket, same as always.

"By the gods, Scarlett, is that you?" He had glanced up almost casually at her voice. "I hear you so often in the night, I had quite gotten used to mistaking the sound of your voice, but..." He rose from his chair, stepping hastily around his wooden desk to reach her. As he drew closer she could smell the familiar clinging scent of his pipe tobacco.

"Father, don't come a step closer." Her voice quavered a little. She had recently fed, yes, but she could not allow herself to put her father more at risk than he already was. "You... I am not of this world now."

"But I see you here, plain as day." The wrinkles about his eyes distorted at his grief-stricken expression, and the hole in her chest gaped. Unable to defy him, she allowed his warm hand to reach out and caress her cheek. "There now... You are cold, that is all child."

_Oh Daddy,_ she wanted to cry, she wanted to bury herself in his arms. But she must not. "I am much more than cold, Father. I am more dangerous than you could ever imagine. I should not even be here..."

"I don't understand." He frowned, only to recoil upon peering into her face. Fresh, bloody tears traced from the corners of her eyes along her cheeks, staining them in their wake. "What in god's name..."

"I cannot stay. I shall arrange for a body to be found in a few days time, and you will go and indentify it. It shall be wearing this dress, and my mother's necklace. Do not let her see the body. Tell her I am dead and gone." She took every effort to control her voice, and not feel destroyed at the sight of her own father staring at her in horror. "I shall leave a letter upon the body, and I want you to give it to my sisters. Tell Vee... tell Violet that she can have that green dress of mine, the one she likes so much... and tell Amber... to be strong, and to work hard and be just like her sister." She wiped the bloody tears away with her sleeve.

"What are you?" Her father whispered, his backside now pressing into the edge of his desk in his need to withdraw from her.

"I am dead." She repeated. "But you must know that I loved you. I loved all of you."

The last memory she had of her father, before she left the house for good, was his good natured face carved into an expression of horror as his eldest daughter turned and leapt from the balcony, like a bird taking flight, never to be seen again. She waited until she was sure he would open the suitcase she had left behind, full to the brim with some of Khalid's treasures, in the hope of giving the remaining living relatives of her bloodline a second chance.

From that night, she never looked back, carving a bloody path from India, across Asia and up into Europe, never forgetting how weak she had managed to render her maker with the simple treasures of her body. She took nothing with her, save for that silver, jewelled knife, tucked safely into her bodice, close to her bosom.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sorry for any unforgivable errors- It's hot off the press.


	13. A Sudden Lover

I've a feeling any men reading this (particularly Jon) will love me for this.

13. A Sudden Lover

Her dinner guest descended upon her a little earlier than she had been prepared for. The intercom's pealing tones had sounded rather harshly, interrupting her vegetable preparations. Cursing as she'd almost cut her thumb, though praising the simple fact the she had not, considering, she pushed the button allowing Scarlett entry into her apartment block, calling directions to her room through the intercom.

She shouldn't have been surprised at how quickly Scarlett seemed to reach her room door, yet she found her shock overwhelmed by that which she felt at the sight of her. The usually extrovert, risqué garb was gone to be replaced by a humble, beautiful tea dress in subtle pastels. Her heels were gone, replaced by a pretty pair of silver sandals, and she had allowed her near silver-blonde hair to fall about her shoulders in delicate waves.

"I hear it is customary to bring wine," she said, and Tifa found a bottle of some red vintage being pressed into her hands as she invited her inside. "You look a lot better, since last we met." Tifa allowed her to enter before closing the door, noting how seemingly wary her guest was, or rather, intrigued. Scarlett moved around the sofa to better view the trinkets that adorned the tops of pretty much every surface in Tifa's living room.

"Yes, well, I had a lot on my mind back then," she admitted, noting duly that the last time she had seen Scarlett was in fact, in Russia. "I've had time since then to get my head around things."

"Well, I must offer you my apologies for my behaviour in Russia. I had put off feeding, in my distress. I had not considered that I had put you in danger, by visiting you in the condition I was in. Please, forgive me." She ducked into what Tifa assumed was a sort of curtsy.

"I… It's alright." After all, Scarlett was the _only_ protection she had. She couldn't afford to be stubborn.

She politely excused herself to the kitchen, which stood just off the living room, able to continue a conversation with her guest while she seemed still content on examining the various photo frames and ornaments.

"Your mother was exceptionally beautiful," Scarlett remarked, carefully plucking one picture frame from the dresser to examine it closer. "And your father was handsome too, I see."

"Thank you. I'm sure they would have been pleased to hear that." Tifa did not look up from the pans she was currently supervising in their bubbling, though she knew exactly which picture Scarlett was referring to. It was a wedding photograph, taken a few years before Tifa had even been born. She was very much like her mother in appearance, though the dark of her hair came from both. It was from her father that she inherited her temperament, and from her mother, her eyes, though it was said she had her father's smile- or rather, those who had looked upon the photo before had remarked so.

"Vincent mentioned they were killed in a terrible accident. I am sorry; I can imagine how difficult it must have been for you." Although Tifa would never primarily describe Scarlett as being a cold mannered sort of woman, she was taken aback by the sincerity which thickened her voice, and wondered if perhaps, she too had suffered a similar loss. Maybe she would ask her later, once the more pressing questions were out of her mind.

"Thank you, that's very kind." She intoned softly, satisfied to let the greens bubble away in their pots for the moment. "Any luck locating Vincent?"

"As of yet, no. But actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"Oh?" Tifa noted how ominous that sounded, as she drained away the boiling water, ready to plate up. Directing her guest to the small dinner table she had set on the balcony, Tifa was allowed a few moments to contemplate Scarlett's words, praying that the vampire would not ask anything of her; at least nothing unseemly.

The meat needed to be cooked for about a minute on each side in order that it be served rare, so she allowed it to sizzle away in the hot pan as she concentrated on pouring the wine and arranging the vegetables on the plate. That done, the scent of the frying steak making her stomach grumble, she removed the pan from the heat and set about laying it on the plate.

"This looks wonderful Tifa!" Scarlett exclaimed, her crystal eyes dancing as she viewed her plate. "And you have cooked it rare- very clever of you."

"Well, I thought so too!" They shared a laugh, chinking their wine glasses together before taking an experimental sip.

"I imagine that you have asked me here for another reason than to simply impress me with your culinary skills," Scarlett said between mouthfuls. She barely touched the vegetables, as Tifa had anticipated, though she seemed to enjoy the steak well enough.

"I had questions, yes." Tifa cleared her throat subconsciously, considering the view over the balcony as she savoured her mouthful. "About you, and Vincent, mostly."

"Understandable. I am judging by the simple fact that I am here on your invitation this evening, that you have not quite given up on our kind, and more specifically, you are not quite ready to give up on Vincent."

Tifa took a swallow of wine, and after noting she had not much left, she then drained her glass. "I guess I haven't." She said quietly, her appetite suddenly obliterated by a familiar black hole in her chest: Loss. "People I care about… always seem to leave me. First it was mom and dad, then Cloud, and then… Vincent."

The blonde smiled sadly, reached out over the table to touch her warm hand with her cool fingers. "I know how that feels, Tifa." She seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if she were fighting for her words. "You know, I had two sisters once; Amber and Violet. Violet was so much like me in every way; our golden hair and our blue eyes. We took after our mother. But Amber, she was like Father. Dark eyes, with her fair hair. She was quieter, though she did not lack for passion. You remind me so much of her…" Scarlett's cool fingers gripped hers tighter, and Tifa found herself holding on, too.

"How long ago?"

"Four hundred years ago, or so. I do not count anymore." Grief exuded from her eyes, though Scarlett shed no tears tonight. "She married and had daughters and sons of her own. Though I felt it was best that I did not… I did not wish to put her family in danger. My sisters and my mother thought me dead; only my father knew the truth about what I was."

Tifa swallowed. She was transfixed upon Scarlett, her half-eaten meal completely forgotten. "Are you… did you _make_ Vincent? Or whatever you call it?"

"Vincent is the child of my blood, my brother, my son, yes. For so many hundreds of years, I was angry. I saw the weakness of men, I witnessed atrocities committed against my sex that I would not wish to burden your thoughts with. I took it upon myself to act out justice. Though now, I see it was just a haze of murders. I am not proud of what I was, what I did." She paused, heaving a sigh. "When I heard about Vincent, and what had befallen him… I pitied him. I knew what it was like to lose everything, because of a vampire's bloodlust."

"You mean, Lucia was killed by a vampire?" Tifa frowned, suddenly understanding why Vincent must've hated himself so.

"Yes. You see, blood of a pregnant woman is… somewhat more attractive to our kind, though only the most wretched would stoop so low. Many of the thrill-seekers amongst us, or so to speak stick to virgins and those who have the essence- like you. Though for Varys, those were not enough. He killed Lucia, and drank her dry."

"She was pregnant?" Everything seemed to make sense, now.

"Yes. I think you know that the baby did not survive either. It destroyed Vincent. He gave up everything after she died; his house, his job, and his family… but not her piano. He took it with him everywhere, even after I turned him."

"Why did you turn him, though? If you pitied him so much, why condemn him to a life of eternity?"

"Alas, I was short-sighted." Scarlett was staring out at the night sky, her gaze unfocused. "I did not see that. Instead, I only saw a man who had lost everything, like I had. I thought he would love me, eventually. I had all the time in the world to wait for him," She chuckled then, though without mirth. "I was wrong though. _I_ was the one who fell in love with him. I was too in love to even consider forcing him to love me, like my maker had tried to force me. I only wanted Vincent to be happy again. I saw that he had a chance of that happiness, with you."

Tifa massaged her throat. "Wasn't it just the essence that drew him to me, at first?"

"Indeed, that would explain the initial attraction, yes. But he seems rather resilient for one as young as he. I believe that his blatant humanity allowed him that. It allows him to feel more. Often time erodes away what sensitivity we have left."

Tifa returned Scarlett's sad smile, gazing out into the star-spangled skies. There were a few wispy clouds marring the perfect black backdrop upon which the stars dazzled, drifting lazily to try to smother the harvest moon. "I don't know what I feel about Vincent," She admitted softly, not taking her eyes away from the stars. "But I just want to know he is safe, at least. I fell responsible somehow, for all of this."

"I can safely say that he only blames himself for what occurred that night, Tifa. Do not burden yourself with guilt."

"I tried not to, but I can't help it. It's all I think about now." She rubbed at her arms, dotted with goosebumps.

"You were such a lively woman once, Tifa. Your passion was dance, and then you gave it up. You were in love with him, but then you gave him up too. Before me now, I see a shell of a woman, who has nothing or no-one left to exist for."

Tifa wanted to carry on staring out into the darkness, but she forced herself to look at Scarlett, her hair almost silver in the moon's glow. "I thought vampires were only real in stories. People don't just adjust like that."

"I'm sorry, I should understand." Shuddering suddenly, though she had caught a chill, Scarlett's body seemed to tense. "My integration into this form of existence was by no means smooth after all," She paused, her beautiful blue eyes possessing a candescence of their own, an icy flame against pale, moonlit skin. She appeared lost in her own thoughts, her chin resting in her open palm. "I just need to find him. I need to see him, even if it is just once more before…"

Tifa narrowed her eyes, her fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the table. "Before what?"

"I've had my share of eternity, and from what I've seen… the future doesn't hold much promise for one such as I. There was a time I dreamed of watching sunsets, and walking on the sand. I wanted children of my own, real children, birthed from my womb, and not from my bite," Her sigh was almost musical, sending a shiver down Tifa's spine. She couldn't comprehend the origin of the serene smile on Scarlett's perfect visage. "Now all I dream of are sunrises. I want to feel the sun on my skin one last time."

"You want to… to die." Tifa swallowed the lump wedged in her throat, suddenly taken by a chill. Had the air suddenly cooled? "The sun can kill you? How?"

"I'm afraid there hasn't been a lot of biological research done on Vampire physiology," Her sonorous laugh did little to dispel Tifa's unease. "Though what scientists we have among us agree that it is some kind of… allergy, if you will. In humans, the sun converts a compound in the skin to vitamin D. It is thought that this reaction in vampires is not only hyperactive, but fatal."

"So you don't… burst into flames?"

"The mitochondria in our cells go into overdrive and produce a heat equivocal to, say, a coal-powered engine. So I would say yes, we burst into flame."

"I…" She was lost for words, her expression apparently serving to amuse her guest further. "You don't think that Vincent has…"

"No." Her answer was abrupt, indisputable. "I would know. I would have felt it. And so would you."

"I know we have this… connection. Can it be used to find him?"

Scarlett considered her carefully. "I've never met someone with such a strong essence as you who had lasted as long as you have, if you'll excuse my bluntness. I've never really had the opportunity to test it out, as I would think none of our kind have."

"I would have thought you would have all the answers. It makes me feel even more helpless, knowing that you are just as clueless as I am."

Scarlett smiled weakly, her beautiful expression exuding a sadness that Tifa couldn't comprehend. "Kane believes you would be safer if you remained at Vincent's house for a time, until we know you are going to be safe for sure. I have to say that I agree with him."

Tifa pulled her lips into a thin line. How she hated being so helpless. "Alright. But only because I am scared shitless."

"Come; I shall help you clear the dishes." Metal chair legs scraped on stone, and yet it seemed there would be no other interruptions to the silence that fell upon them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . .

Vincent's house was just as resplendent as she remembered, though somewhat empty and cold without him, or his piano. Kane had taken the liberty of preparing Vincent's room for her to stay in, taking the liberty of carrying up the few belongings she had brought with her, up to the room. She didn't quite feel strong enough to head up yet, so she sufficed with remaining downstairs, aware that Scarlett was watching her carefully all the while, perched quite elegantly on the sofa.

"Won't you sit down?"

Shaking herself, she near-drifted towards the arm chair she usually inhabited, upon previous visits, lowering herself into it rather deliberately. It felt so odd being here, as though she were intruding somehow, in his house with his knowledge or permission.

"I did not wish to alarm you Tifa, but there is another reason that Kane and I would prefer you to remain here, for as long as we deem necessary."

"Oh?" Of course, there always was _something_ else.

"When a Vampire drinks from a human with only the intent to feed, you are left with a mark. I believe we have already discussed this?" At Tifa's dull nod, she continued. "Well, that mark acts as a signal to other vampires. It lets them know that you are… available."

"Available?" Tifa clutched at her throat, feeling suddenly breathless, swallowing down a mouthful of air.

"-And what with you having such a strong essence… I fear that it may draw unnecessary attention to you. A vampire may seek you out, and if he does not find you claimed, or he is somewhat more experienced than the vampire who has marked you, he may claim you for his, or indeed her own."

"But there is no-one to claim me," She tries to understand, voicing her concerns aloud. "And you say that Vincent was young?"

"For now, I am to stand in as your keeper."

"My keeper…"

"I should pray that it will never come to it, but should I need to affirm my dominance and ownership of you, excuse my pun, I apologise in advance." She bowed her head, platinum waves sliding over her shoulders like silk.

"I think… I think I need to go and lie down."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

Tifa stands, circumnavigating the furniture and the walls somewhat dreamily, taking the stairs slowly and deliberately. She pauses to consider Lucia's painting, as she reaches the landing. "I hope you are resting now," She whispers, touching her trembling fingers to the canvas.

She finds the door to Vincent's room open, though she is not surprised; Kane must still be within. She enters, spotting his tall, angular form by the window where an easel stands, illuminated in the moonlight. The room is truly extraordinary at night, she notes, surrounded on 3 sides by floor to ceiling glass; the sky, moon and stars would be her walls tonight, it seemed.

"I hope you are feeling well," He voices his concern, though she must look anything but well. The moonlight must have hid her pallid complexion, for he made no further comment. "I shall leave you to rest, but first, I think there is something you should see." He turns back to consider the easel again, and she frowns, her curiosity driving her footsteps.

Set upon the wooden frame was a canvas, turned to face the window, to perhaps allow the moonlight to guide the brush strokes. As she draws closer she can smell the oils, and sure enough she finds the palette still coated in a now dried spectrum of paints. Her eyes trace the brush strokes and appraise the stippling, the attention to detail. Though the figure in turned away, her face not visible, she recognised it immediately.

"It's me." She remarks somewhat breathlessly, reaching out tentative fingertips to touch the rough uneven surface of the canvas. She recognises the image, or rather the memory he must have painted from; she is wearing her navy dancing skirts, the rest of her attire black. The shadings are of violet and midnight; the lighting of the dance studio, all those months ago. The first time he saw her dance.

"It is a beautiful image. One of only three he has ever painted, I believe." Kane remarks softly from her side, and she jumps, having temporarily forgotten his presence.

"It's been a long while, since I wore those shoes." The soft, dusky pink of her shoes are the only light hue of the painting, beside the few accents of exposed skin. Her mind travels to her suitcase, lying in the centre of the newly-made bed. She had placed her dancing shoes in there, at the last moment.

Kane politely excused himself from the room, the door closing softly after him. Heaving a sigh, she turns away from the painting and crosses over to what will be her bed for an indefinite time. From her bag, she removes the poetry book that Vincent had lent to her, slotting it back into its place on his towering bookshelf. It felt good to return it. She owed him nothing, now.

Next, she removed a few personal effects, before she reaches in to feel the familiar soft leather of her split-soled ballet shoes. Smiling softly, she withdraws her hand, appraising the shoes which were to her, a second skin. Perhaps she could do some stretches, a few exercises to start getting her back into things. Perhaps it would help her state of mind. She does not have her Pointe shoes- she knows they lie in her wardrobe still. There were plenty of daylight hours ahead in which she could retrieve them, and besides, she would need to break her feet back into them first. She had been without practice for too long.

She slips her feet into her shoes, lacing the satin ribbons with practised ease. They were perfectly moulded to the shape of her feet, and instantly, she feels somewhat calmer. This was where everything had began.

Getting to her feet, she moves into the centre of the room, appraising the space around her. Vincent's minimalist quarters offered her ample room for activity, and she needn't turn on the lights, especially on such a clear night as tonight. The moon shall be her spotlight.

She presses her toes into the carpet, wincing only slightly as the bones shift and crack. She rolls each foot forward, popping each joint, stretching out the muscles until they become supple. Next, she moves onto her legs, dipping her spine into a swan dive, her thigh muscles complaining a little. She is pleased that after only a few minutes of cyclic breathing she is able to execute a full forward bed, her arms wrapped behind her knees. Her spine pops in several places as she rights herself once more.

Sliding between the sheets an hour or so later, she is assaulted by a fragrance she did not realise was so familiar to her; a clean, musky scent that conjured the memory of the church bell tower; being close to him, talking with him, feeling his lips brushing at the pulse point of her wrist. She notes just how vulnerable she had been then; how vulnerable she had always been.

Sleep did not come to her as swiftly as she had hoped; her mind was very much active, running away with thought-trains until she could have well screamed.

Then she heard _them_.

Kane and Scarlett; well, mostly Scarlett really. Her lust-filled sighs seemed to pierce through the walls and Tifa's thoughts. They are making love in the next room, and after a while she begins to wonder if Kane's performance is so enhanced by the vampire blood he was undoubtedly taking from Scarlett.

She tried to shut out the sounds, curling into a ball and tugging the cool side of the pillow over her head. Yet she couldn't ignore nor acknowledge the sudden pressure build up in her gut, the way her breath was bated. Her body was reacting to it. Kane and Scarlett were both beautiful people, and she didn't deny that the thought of them together thrilled her somewhere inside.

Scarlett had kissed her in Cloud's apartment in Moscow, not even a week before. She could recall every detail; the way the cold air buffeted in through the still-open window made her skin rise in goosebumps, her breasts firm beneath her nightshirt. She could summon the memory of Scarlett's taste, her moist, warm mouth descending so briefly over hers. She had touched her neck, traced the shape of her lips with one cool fingertip.

Was it just her kind that fascinated Tifa? Or was it Scarlett's unashamed sexuality that had awakened something within her? More than once she had maintained the notion that Scarlett had been attracted to her, though the same could be said for Kane, also. She had always considered herself open minded when it came to love and sex. She firmly believed that if someone was right for you, male or female, then there could be no substitute for that. Love was love, and attraction was attraction. For her, there were few grey areas.

She had kissed a woman before, but that was years ago, in dance school. Tensions ran high in such a competitive, driven environment, and it often manifested itself in a variety of ways; arguments, even fist fights. The boys would joke about pillow fights in underwear, but… well, little did they know.

The sounds had stopped, perhaps without her realising, and she released a breath she had been unconsciously holding, unclenching her thighs and stretching out again in the cool sheets, her mind revelling in the pregnant silence.

A whisper of a door opening, brushing over carpet, though she did not note the arrival of the intruder until she felt a sudden shift of air as the sheets were moved aside. She opened her eyes, surprised, her gaze falling on Scarlett. She looked ethereal. Her hair was liquid silver in the moonlight, tumbling past ivory, chiselled shoulders, not quite long enough to cover her breasts. She could make out the outline of her nipples, the full curve of her breasts through the silk of her nightdress. Scarlett's icy gaze pierced through hers, and she almost jumped at the touch of a cool hand on her thigh. The blonde vampire shifted closer, their ankles entwined, propped on one elbow to gaze down at her human bedfellow.

"It's alright," She soothes, her full lips flushed pink, no doubt from her recent activities. "I know you've been listening."

Tifa breath hitches abruptly in her throat as the cool hand drifts in gentle arcs along the inside of her thigh, and her body sighs internally, urging her to relax into her touch. "I…"

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Scarlett whispers, her face drawing closer to her own. Her swollen lips ghost against hers, sucking in deliberate breaths to enhance the passage of her scent over her tongue. her essence is strong, blinding white hot pleasure to even her fingertips. There would be more taking for Scarlett though; she had silently promised that to Vincent.

Kane was catatonic in the next room, the pierce-marks at his throat steadily healing over from where Scarlett had recently fed, his smooth, naked torso marred by angry trace marks, tell-tale of her nails. She showed no such aggression toward Tifa, though. No, she was too pure, too fragile for that. The tiny hitches in her breath that would otherwise be hidden to a mortal man thrilled her; trembling, slender fingertips locked in her golden curls, tugging her closer still, a hot wet tongue darting out past hesitant lips to caress hers.

… She was doing Vincent both a dishonour, and a favour she knew. Yet it had been so long since she had been able to act upon what her heart told her, not her body, or her hunger. For the first time in over a century she felt human, taking a risk that she knew would have consequences.

She had forgotten how soft and warm female skin could truly be, clothing tossed away and abandoned, legs tangled, mouths and fingers wandering...

...eyelids open, and ruby jewels expand in the darkness. Sweat glides from his skin, a sensation heady on his body that he had forgotten he was capable of feeling… like he could hide away from the world quite happily, and yet conquer it, all because of a touch….

Her body had forgotten it could feel this way. So many seemingly endless ages of hate, greed and power-fuelled rampages, claiming lives, innocence… She was taking something that was not hers. Trailing her tongue across Tifa's skin was like drinking in light. She could taste the sunlight, she could remember what it was to have hot sand underfoot… Her essence was a heady drug to her, radiating from her every pore like a flower releasing pollen to the wind.

He lies in the darkness, the cool of rock underneath him, swimming in the revelations of the two women, linked both to him, and now to each other. He feels no anger, no pain… He is in bliss, for now, every cell singing with the sensation of a memory…. memory he could make a reality once more.

Cool fingertips caress between her thighs, and her mind is suddenly knocked to a place without stars, holding her breath tightly, lips sealed by Scarlett's.

She sighs, her body sinking into the mattress once more, slender arms tangled with her sudden lover. "He will come. I promise I will see it happen."

Tifa drifted off into slumber, unaware of her words, nor of the tears glistening upon frigid cheeks, miles away in the darkness.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

God. Well, let me know what you thought.


	14. Motion

**A/N: A few new readers have come on board, and I thank them for leaving reviews. After that last chapter, I got so many new readers- 2 guesses as to why! So I'm deciding where this goes, sorry if it seems like I am dragging it out. I will come back with something good, honest.**

**Please, Review!**

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14. Motion

She awoke rather abruptly in the morning with the sun bursting through the windows, squinting, trying to gain her bearings. Her brain fumbled to try and recall the details of the night before. Glancing to her side, she noted that the space beside her was empty. She also noted, as clarity returned to her in ebbs and waves, that she was fully dressed, and that there was no evidence to suggest that the events in the night had truly occurred.

Frowning, she slipped out of the sheets, her feet meeting soft carpet, crossing over to the door and passing out into the hall. The house was still, and that was perhaps why she held her breath as she opened the door to Scarlett's bedroom. In contrast to Vincent's room, Scarlett had draped her windows in rich silks of claret and plum, tinting the sunlight beautifully as it permeated the fabric. The woman in question lay on her back alone amidst her sheets, dressed in black silk, her face turned toward the ceiling. Her lips tightly sealed as she sucked in a breath, she padded quietly across the room and leant over the blonde woman, watching her carefully. Her chest didn't seem to rise and fall in the steady state breathing characteristic of sleep. In fact, she was perfectly still, her complexion pallid and quite unlike how it usually appeared. To the casual observer, Scarlett was either dead, or in a coma. Though Tifa suspected that was far from the truth.

"What are you doing?"

She whirled around suddenly, her heart rudely jump-started into action, thumping seemingly in her throat. Kane was stood in the doorway watching her and wearing an amused expression. He wore a shirt that was unbuttoned, and pale coloured pants.

"I was… I was just…"

"No matter. No doubt you have your ah… curiosities." His eyes twinkled, skin tinted lilac in the filtered sunlight.

Her cheeks burned- did he know? "I was just… confused."

"We should talk. I get the feeling that I will have to explain some things to you." Glad of the diversion, she followed him back out of the room, glancing back once over her shoulder at the catatonic figure of Scarlett before Kane pulled the door shut softly. "Don't worry- she won't wake. She is well practised in tuning out harmless disturbances to her sleep." He told her as they passed down the stairs and into the kitchen. She could smell pancake batter. "I suspect you are hungry?"

"Yes, thank you." Suddenly shy, she tucked her bed-ruffled hair behind her ears, seating herself at the counter. It occurred to her that this was the first time she'd seen the kitchen in Vincent's house used. She suddenly wondered whether or not vampires _needed_ to eat- she knew they could, though- Scarlett had dispelled that curiosity.

Kane allowed her to remain in silence for a moment, bustling around the kitchen with practised ease, and with a familiarity that suggested he had been here before. Only when he had set down a plate of pancakes and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice before her did she break the quiet with a muttered 'thanks'.

"You seem troubled by something." He remarked between mouthfuls, seated adjacent to her at the breakfast counter. "Sleep well?"

She raised her eyes from her plate, struck once again by the notion that he knew something. "I… I slept well enough. Why do you ask?"

"Oh it's just… I wondered if you had had any… interesting dreams, perhaps?"

She frowned, hoping that perhaps it would disguise her furious blush. "I don't understand what you are trying to get at, Kane."

His smile slipped away, and he looked somewhat apologetic. "I apologise. I should really elaborate. But first I should ask you if… if last night you experienced an erotic dream." She didn't answer him, her fingers numb around her fork. "A dream that perhaps was so vivid you could not distinguish between it, and reality."

"You… you know?" She may as well admit it; the suspense was killing her.

His grin returned. "Well, I think I do. The only thing I don't know is… who. Though I am guessing that… it was Scarlett?"

She opened her mouth slowly, then closed it again. "I… I thought… I thought it was real." She fixed her stare on the plate, to spare her the shame. She had felt guilty enough as it was, upon waking. Now having to discuss it with a man she barely knew…

"Well that was the intention."

"I'm not sure I understand."

His knife and fork met audibly as he set them down on his empty plate. "Let me explain. At some point last night, Scarlett slipped you some of her blood in your wine."

Tifa's eyes went wide. "Some of her _blood_?"

"Yes. Enough that it is impossible for you to detect it."

"But… why?" She felt a little angry, and somewhat violated.

"It was part of a plan, you see. I didn't necessarily approve of her doing so without your prior knowledge, yet even I could see that the desired effect would be more ah… _potent_, shall we say, if you were oblivious. Vampire blood can have a number of effects if taken by humans. Some of them you know; we have spoken of it before. Taken in a single dose, as yours was, it acts as a very powerful aphrodisiac- and I mean very powerful."

"So you are saying that Scarlett wanted me to dream about… having sex with her?"

"Considering the blood was taken from her and contained some of mine… the results could have gone one of two ways. Or three ways, I suppose…" He coughed into his hand. "Taking Scarlett's blood only served to reinforce the link you both share… and allowed your emotional state to be broadcasted to-"

"-Vincent!" Her hand shot to her mouth. "He is going to think that-"

"He will have felt as if he was there himself, considering how tight his link with both of you is. It would also allow you to become closer to Vincent."

"I thought that… last night… I felt him. I could _sense_ him almost… as I was falling to sleep. Or rather when I thought I was falling asleep…" She rubbed at her face. "I'm so confused. I thought I heard you two- you _know_… and then…"

"Oh no, You did. That was… real." She didn't quite know what to make of that revelation. "It was intended to ah… spark your imagination."

Tifa pushed her half-eaten food away from her, her appetite long lost. Her stomach churned rather suddenly, and a wave of nausea caught her off guard and had her half rising to her feet. That action left her dizzy though, and she reasoned to stay put for the moment.

Was there anyone she could trust anymore? And did she have much of a choice, if she did not? Scarlett's agenda was unclear to her, and Kane… well she couldn't say. She was a fly caught in a spider's web, the spider itself absent- yet she knows her entrapment sent tremors. She must only wait.

"Why are you even protecting me?" She blurted, hot tears appearing from nowhere, etching angry lines upon her cheeks. "What does someone like you, or Scarlett, get out if it?" The sable-haired man said nothing, examining her with barely contained curiosity. "Do you even care?" She added in a whispered, desperate plea for help, for someone to tell her everything would be alright- a plea she knew couldn't be answered.

"Because I want to know why you have… this _hold_ over everyone. I want to know why you have captured the interest of all of the vampires within a 50 mile radius. I am here because Scarlett is my keeper, and I hers. She asked me to protect you, and so I shall."

"But you are only human, too… What can you do?"

"Come now; there." He reached out to wipe away her tears, gazing with fascination at the moisture on his fingertips. "Go and get dressed, and we shall go out for a walk. I can tell you everything then. The daylight hours are ours. Then, we are safe to exist without fear."

She nodded rigidly, begrudged to go with him and yet craving the sensation of the morning sun on her skin, unfiltered, and free.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Her sandals dangled from one hand as they walked along the shoreline, the waves lapping over her toes. Suitably calmed with the sun beating against her back and the wind playing in her hair, she bid Kane continue. At least out here, with hours of light stretching before her, she could perhaps digest whatever unbelievable information he fed her and pass it off as an elaborate story. If only for a little while.

"I come from a long line of daywalkers, as we are known." He told her, his hands in his pockets, his tanned forearms relaxed at his sides. "We are born and we live for one purpose and one purpose only; to serve the Night Dwellers."

"You do not get a choice?" She squints across at her companion, stooping to pluck a pebble from the sand and toss it into the waves.

"No. Most of the men, and more recently some women act as servants, guardians of the vampires, protecting them while they sleep. In return, we are blessed with immeasurable wealth, vitality, and… well, I guess that's it. Women born into the Daywalker line bear children, destined to carry on our service."

"That's… horrible. But how many of you are there? Surely there might be issues of inbreeding?"

"Well, that is true," He acquiesced, appearing to be impressed with her logic. "We have houses all over the world. Matches are arranged between men and women, solely for the purpose of procreation, to ensure that genes are well distributed. Marriage for love is not possible for my kind, or at least, unless you are willing to cut out your wife's tongue, to ensure her silence."

"That happens?"

"Many years ago. Not so much anymore. Daywalkers can satisfy their urges with vampires who are willing to do so, and find them much more amiable bedfellows."

"Is that so?"

"I don't suppose you would know how it feels to make love, and be bitten at the same time. It is… indescribable."

She kept her eyes trained on the smooth sands ahead. Of course, she had been bitten, and it _had_ felt… well, yes, indescribable. Then the pain had taken over. "I have been bitten. But I have never… I didn't…"

"I understand. I imagine it was painful. The first time always is, and especially when it is incomplete. Vampire fangs release vasodilators and aphrodisiacs into the blood stream. To widen your blood vessels and slow the flow; that way it gets oxygenated more… and it is much more potent for the vampire in question."

"I see."

They walked in silence for a while, perhaps choosing to not discuss such matters when passing local children, playing in the sand. The swell of laughter as they ran barefoot, splashing through the wash alienated her somehow. She was so far removed from that world now, she was stuck somewhere in limbo, between her old world, and a new one, both of which she felt she did not belong in.

"Tell me; Do you, or did you ever intend on locating Vincent?" He had stopped in his tracks, his rich golden hair dancing lightly in the breeze about his sun-kissed face.

"I…" She stared at her feet, watching as the water carried sand forwards to bury her toes. "I honestly don't know. I Can't say I have had time alone enough to think about what I want. Though I have long realise that it doesn't matter what I want anymore." She pulled her feet free and took a few steps into the water, the waves now lapping about her ankles. "I don't know what I want, and I don't know how I feel. Then again, I never have. I'm static. I can't move. I'm… I'm lost, and I'm alone."

"I can sympathise," He tells her, wading in beside her. "I was in love once, you know? But I didn't realise that the fragility of my human heart could do so much damage. For decades I was so sure it was what I wanted. So sure that our being together would make everything alright. But I knew… I knew it was futile. She loved another, a love that would never die. So now… It is easier for me to simply… exist. I want for nothing, lest it destroy me."

She considers him through purposefully blurred vision, mulling over his words. "I hope you can find happiness one day."

"How can you be so sincere?" Suddenly he shakes her, for the first time showing some sort of emotion besides his usual nonchalance. His brow is creased, his beautiful green eyes glistening. "How can you wish me well, when all I have brought you is ill?"

"I…" She fumbles for an explanation, but finds none, her brain useless dead flesh.

"How can you stay so strong? How can you?" His fingers are a vice-like grip on her shoulders, and she wonders if he has forgotten how strong he is. She wonders if he can splinter her bones with those fingers.

She bites her lip, before leaning forward and pressing her salt-dry lips to his. He breathes in sharply, fingers relaxing their tight hold on her. The world moves around them; the waves bubbling, the seagulls continue to call to one another, and the breeze continues to blow. She pulls away, tucking away errant strands of her hair.

"I stay strong because… I have to know who I am. I have to find him, so that I can find myself."

His mouth is a thin line, olive eyes considering her with fascination. "I see. But where will you go?"

"I don't know that either. But I can't stay here. I have to go out there and face whatever is waiting for me. I can't just remain to await my fate like a prisoner on Death Row."

"I understand. You should go now, and use the daylight hours while you still can."

"You won't tell Scarlett?"

"She will know." He gives a shrug. "She always does."

"Will she be angry with you?"

"Furious, no doubt." For a reason unknown to her, he grins. She returns his smile, pivoting on her heel and splashing steadily back toward the shore.

"Tell her I am sorry. And Kane?" She half turns back, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "You should tell her how you feel. You never know… It might be too late otherwise."

He bows his head slightly, watching her go, before turning back to stare out to sea, watching to sunlight dance on the surface of the water. In the brief contact of their mouths, he received only a glimpse of how she would be perceived by those of the Night… he does not blame her for running.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sky gapes above her, a canvas for the heavens. It is so spectacular that she takes a moment to sit down on the grassy pasture to get lost in its magnificence. In the city, the sky appears black, but out here, the black is dusted with white and green and orange- a spectrum of interstellar dust dispersing the radiance of a billions stars. She is in a field of cows, though it seems they are sleeping, snuffling occasionally, punctuating the hum and buzz of crickets.

Not wanting to linger too long, she relaxed her neck, craned to gaze up at the heavens, and continues her forward march, hitching her pack up on her shoulder.

She doesn't know where she is going. So far, she had decided on North, and that about as far as her foresight had allowed her. Perhaps out here, she could focus. Maybe she could somehow utilise her connection with Vincent, and perhaps track him.

Other than that, though, she was playing it by ear. She had wondered whether or not Scarlett would try and intervene with her sojourn, considering the effort she seemed to have invested in trying to keep Tifa safe. Or so it had seemed. She didn't know anymore.

She still couldn't say whether or not she trusted Kane, and yet in him she saw something of herself, what she could become. She didn't want that for herself; didn't want to spend years lost amidst a haze of uncertainty and doubt. She was tired of living a life by half, never quite reaching the finish line in the race toward her dreams.

She was going to find Vincent and get answers, even if it killed her.

Did it scare her that probably there were many vampires aware of her presence, perhaps even following her trail? Yes. But each morning felt like a miracle, the sun on her face, her humanity very much intact. She would face another day.

Kane had supplied her with a few defences, if they could be called such, just prior to her departure from Costa. She had raised an eyebrow when he had pressed UV bulbs into her hands, yet he told her never to sleep without one on. She found the idea of carrying around several different bulbs in her pack ridiculous, though Kane had assured her that it was enough to severely dehabilitate any vampire who might try to sneak upon her while she slept. She had to admit that she slept a little easier knowing _that_. She kept a UV torch by her bed too, and at her side wherever she went.

It was for that reason that her watcher could not approach.

She walks on, injecting a little haste into her step. She should probably find a farm or something, and try and buy a room for the night; there she would begin her nightly ritual of changing the bulbs, if indeed there was any electricity, and ensuring her silver knife was at hand.

Her preparation for leaving had been somewhat hurried, yet she hadn't missed the beautifully jewelled object glinting at her from the sideboard in her living room, lying innocently in front of the photograph of her parents on their wedding day. She knows instantly who left it; it must have been Scarlett. She must have known. Suddenly struck by melancholy, she removed the photograph of her parents from the frame and inserted it into her pocket, before pocketing the knife also, safely guarded by a small leather scabbard.

Even now, climbing over a stile she can feel the cool leather pressing into her hip, a reassuring presence within her reach, should she require it. Every night she turns it over in her hands, mesmerised by the play of light bouncing from the faceted-surface of the stones; Ruby, emerald and sapphires encrust the hilt, and she can barely imagine how much something like this would be worth. With that in mind, she always ensured that the hilt was hidden beneath the hem of her shirt, and that the leather scabbard was firmly fixed to her belt before she went out anywhere where there were lots of people. Then again, the nearest town was miles away; Only crows and cows to worry about in the dusty farmlands.

At the edge of the field, she can make out a farmhouse, nestled into the hillside, golden light glowing in the windows. Smiling, she drags her weary feet on.

The owner is suspicious at first, though at her offer of money (probably too much) she is given a room in the attic. It is basic- there is no plumbing, with only an antique wash stand and a jug of water drawn from the well and heated before the fire as a substitute for a sink, she is relieved to note the presence of one electric bulb, dangling somewhat awkwardly from the rafters. Tifa thanks the farmer, and bids the middle-aged woman goodnight, dead-bolting the door before she begins her nightly ritual.

She changes the bulb instantly, then lights a candle, whose light is sufficient enough to guide her around the room. Stripping to her waist, she makes use of the still-warm water and scrubs away the dirt and grime of the day, then takes ten minutes or so to comb out her hair from its plait.

That done, she changes into a loose nightshirt and sets about sorting out her sleeping arrangements. The attic is spacious, with a rusty bed frame and mattress housed in the corner. The bedlinen looks clean, for which she is thankful. Recently, she chooses to drag the bedding into the centre of the room directly beneath the UV bulb's sphere of light, invisible to her, and yet all that stands between her and danger right now.

Settling herself on the floor, she takes out the photograph of her parents and looks at it for a long time, her eyes fondly tracing faces that once had been so familiar to her, and yet felt so alien still. Sighing, she places it by her pillow, directly beside the knife, before leaning over to blow out the candle. Plunged into darkness, she lied awake and listens for a while, doing her best to familiarise herself with the natural sounds of the house shifting around her. She must quickly learn how to tell them apart from other, more sinister sounds.

Tonight she falls asleep quickly, getting accustomed to her new nightly ritual. Outside, her watcher is motionless, their mind focused solely on her heartbeat, a musical score to his ears. She is clever this one, though her search for shelter at so late an hour had placed her in more danger imaginable to her now, lost in the layers of sleep. They could have struck. Something stops them, though. What is it that she searches for? What is it that she seeks, and so apparently fears?

But they wonder also, more predominantly than anything else, _what_ is she?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


	15. Sacrifice

15. Sacrifice

She is being watched. For many a night she had pertained the same feeling; eyes were on her back, wherever she turned, and nowhere felt safe anymore. Her footsteps were watched, a neon trail across the country that was plain for all to see. She knew as much. She kept the torch held in her hand at night, the last thing she sees before she slips into a restless slumber being the black-violet shape of the UV bulb, either by her beside or swinging above her head.

She took to waking before dawn, ready to set foot out of the door only once the weak morning sun lit her path. She dare not try any sooner.

Her travelling had taken her far. She drew close to the border with France, with the idea in mind that she would travel to Italy via the coastline. From there, she had no idea where she would go. Perhaps she would make her way to Russia once more. She longed to see the one person she trusted that was most definitely human. Well, at least she thought Cloud must be human. She'd known him for years, and he'd never tried to bite her neck, or anything equally unsavoury.

She considered her options one morning, humming along with the beat of her boots on the dusty trail that lay ahead. It was several hours till midday.

Would things always be this way? Struck by this sudden thought, she halted upon the dusty track road she was walking along, deaf to the bird song and the rustle of the gentle breeze in the leaves of the olive trees, lining the groves in the fields to the east. Would she forever remain a fugitive of the shadows?

… _for the night is long and full of terrors…_

She had read that somewhere, and had started to weave it into her prayers at night. Whatever god would choose to hear her, she addressed her deepest thanks to each morning when she awoke, intact and unmolested by creatures of the night.

She was marked, she recalled, fingers subconsciously rising to touch the bite marks that were no longer there at her throat. Sometimes they burned, a phantom sensation that plagued her after sundown; and unbeknownst to her, in the dead of night whilst she slept they reappeared, fresh as though they had been made not minutes before. They were a signal to any vampires nearby or faraway that she was aware of their existence and that she was available to feed from.

Kane had mentioned something about it before; in the long distant past, humans, particularly women existed solely as blood tanks for vampires, kept alive only to serve that purpose. Female blood was all the sweeter, he said. Particularly maternal blood…

She shuddered beneath the blistering Spanish sun.

. . . . 0. . . .

She pointedly ignores her reflection, sitting before the mirror merely as force of habit as she brushes out her hair. The blonde hues have never changed, yet to her they seem colder, the warm notes no longer touched by the warmth of an Indian sun. Or any sun, for that matter. Scarlett sighed, setting down her brush with a little too much force. The ivory inlay on the back cracks a little.

"I understand why you let her go," She addressed the room, sapphire eyes gleaming in the orange glow of the candles flickering upon her dresser. "I just wish you could have been honest with me."

She stood, the layers of silk of her nightdress and overcoat whispering as she moved. Raising her eyes to the mirror, she could view the interior of her room, a play of candlelight and shadow. Red, purple, blue; all appeared black.

"I wish it had never come to this…" She balled her hand into a fist, nails cutting half-moons in her palm.

He could not answer her. Barely conscious, he lay prostrate upon her bed, drowsing slightly at her words. When she was able to bring herself to wakefulness, it was already too late. She could not sense her any longer, her beautiful, sinful scent gone, the memory of her taste lingering upon her lips. Kane had released her from a captivity she didn't know she was in, a self-imposed punishment for sins committed by another, and centuries ago.

"I'm sorry Vincent, but… perhaps it is best this way." Silence is her answer, as usual.

"S… Scarlett?" He is slipping into consciousness once more, yet she doubts he fully realises where he is. "Is it… is it night?"

She crosses the room, whispering silks rustling as she walks. "Yes, my love. The eternal dark is coming, and we shall walk in it together."

"What?" A little more lucid this time. She would have to hurry.

"Hush, my love. You must rest. You must conserve your energy." She reached his side, seating herself beside him. She reaches out a pale hand to touch his face, brushing aside his golden hair. Her fingers come away wet with blood. "You must not fight anymore." She lowers her mouth to his throat, finding with her lips the wound that would no longer close. Her fangs slid in with ease, drawing a low moan from Kane's lips.

"Scarlett, please…"He raises a hand, tries to push at her shoulders. She ignores him as once would a fly, taking his life's blood away from him slowly, relishing the sensation of it gliding over her tongue. "I love you, please…"

"Fool. You should have learned long ago…" She withdraws, lips glistening red and wet. A droplet glides from her mouth to her chin, dripping then onto her chest and down between her breasts. "I killed your last lover. I drained her like I drained you." She trails a fingertip along his face. "And still, you love me." She looks sad for a moment, her fingers dampened now by his tears.

"Scarlett, you must… you must help her…"

"I will. I promise you that much."

Standing, she turns to her reflection once more; A powerful beauty, dripping with blood. So much power surging through her veins, she could do anything she wanted….

"She is of my blood, you know… I followed my living sisters' bloodlines down to the very last daughter. Tifa is all that is left, after her mother's death. A curse… and she must bear it also, for my weakness."

"Scarlett…"

"We must help her, Kane. We must destroy this curse." She turns, a smile upon her glistening red lips. "We must cleanse ourselves with flame."

One careless hand was all it took, one candle overturned and then the silks of her bed were aflame. She raised her hands, eyes closed as the flame spread, the furniture catching like kindling. Kane's screams burst through the crackle and pop of burning mahogany as his flesh burned and blackened.

The fire licked at the walls and ceiling, buckling the glass in the windows. Kane's screams subsided as his life finally expired.

Still, the red woman stood peaceful and tranquil, white skin blackened only by soot.

Somewhere, ruby eyes opened, the blood call ringing in his ears, an ancient summon he was unable to ignore.

"Scarlett what have you done…"

-0-

**A/N: just a short one to show you I am still alive! And to whet your appetites…**

**As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.**


	16. Valley of The Sun

_So, after much ado, I present…_

16. The Valley of the Sun

She had taken shelter from the heat beneath the shade of an orchard. Legs crossed, head leant back against the trunk of an ancient lemon tree, she allowed the fragrance of the leaves and the fruit wash over her, listening to the whispering breeze and the chattering song birds in the branches.

It is a rare moment of peace. A gentle smile plays upon her lips, and she finds her hands folded in her lap, almost the lotus position. Surely it could not hurt to just rest here for a moment, in the cool shade, a sanctuary from the unforgivable midday heat.

She had not slept last night at all; the hair on her arms had been stood on end for hours, her pupils dancing and darting at every sound the house made around her. Her sense of unease seemed reluctant to abate even when the weak grey light of dawn crept through the shutters. Exhausted after slipping in and out of restless slumber, she had pushed the creaking shutters wide open, inhaling the scent of morning. Upon her exhale, a scream fell from her lips.

So much blood…

Her eyes shot open again, relying on the scent of the waxy lemons and the baking soil to confirm she was in fact no longer in that farmhouse, staring out onto the carnage below. Almost an entire flock of cattle, butchered, and neither she nor the farmers of the household were any the wiser.

She had offered to remain behind, to help with the clean-up. The farmer had declined politely, refusing to take her money for the night's lodging. Yet it was not kindness that made him shoo her away, cold eyes watching her walk off his land and into the daylight. It was fear.

What curse followed her? What was she running from?

She grabbed a fist full of cool dirt, letting it crumble and slip out from between the gaps in her fingers, before repeating the action. Was it so close? Was it waiting for her to slip up just once, maybe forget to light her UV bulb, or for the bulb to fizzle out in the night? Would it then descend upon her and wreak carnage akin to that which had befallen the farmers herd?

She shivered covered in a sheen of sweat beneath the baking heat.

She needed to find help. She couldn't run like this forever, could she? She had been such a fool to trust him, to allow him close, after all the warnings… _If you were any wiser, you would stay away from me._ Her reasoning powers had never been one of her strong points. She had always been short-sighted, had always wanted to take the safer route. Yet the danger about him had enticed her, pulled her in so close, she had no other choice…

It was too late to dwell on such things now.

She stumbled to her feet once again, shouldering her pack of few belongings. The night was half a day away yet, but its shadow haunted her, a leering promise of fear and restless sleep, hiding within its shadowing confines the terrors of this world. Terrors which she had been oblivious of, until now. Terrors which were more aware of her than she of them.

Her boots crunched over dirt. One step at a time, under the Spanish sun.

It was all she could do.

-0-

She was able to hitch a ride on the back of a hay cart later on that day, with an elderly goat for a companion, crossing more distance than she could have hoped for on her own two wearied feet. The driver had seemed amiable enough, squinting from beneath his straw hat as if struggling to understand her Spanish. He had merely grunted his understanding and waved away her gift of money before turning and hoisting himself up into the truck's rusty cabin. The engine had juddered to life, carrying them over the dust track at a bumbling pace, jostling her around in the open truck bed. She soon became thankful for the hay, which despite causing her to sneeze, acted as cushioning.

She used the time the Samaritan farmer had given her to think, reclined against a bale of hay, gazing up at the cloudless sky, and despite the rickety, side-to-side motions of the truck as it bobbed its way along the dirt track, soon she found herself drifting off in a restful doze.

-0-

She opened her eyes much later, taking only moment to notice that the stutter-stop motion of the old wagon had indeed come to a halt. The skies above were hazy, telling her that hours had passed—in fact, it was almost dusk. A spasm of panic overtook her; she needed to find shelter, and fast. After what she found waiting for her when she had woken that morning, she didn't want to run the risk of finding out who- or indeed what—had been responsible.

Her muscles complaining at her sudden movement, she scrambled out of her temporary nest among the hay stacks, just as her driver stepped down out of the cabin.

In the dying light, she considered him, her thank you caught in her throat. He was fair haired, a disorderly mop revealed by the absence of that inauspicious straw hat. It was certainly rare to see such light hair… and his eyes, a piercing blue, gleaming coolly out from beneath deep set eye sockets.

"Thank you for your kindness sir, but I need to find shelter for the night. Please can you tell me where I can…"

She paused, for he was chuckling dryly, turning his back to her as he struck a match to light a cigarette pinched between his lips. "Take a look around sweetheart." Her ears were assaulted by a brisk, alien accent. American, perhaps, though she struggled with the exact state. "You're in the middle of nowhere. What kinda shelter were you expecting?"

She lowered her head. "I had hoped I would have time before… before sundown to find a farm house-"

"So that's what you've been doing all this time? An' You're still alive?" He laughs again, white-blue smoke curling out from his mouth. "Turn around. That's gunna be you shelter."

Pivoting on her heel, palm shielding her eyes against the orange glare of the setting Spanish sun, she notices the compound for the first time.; it is nestled in a valley, bisected by a trickling silver stream, filtering down from the mountain it is back up against. From her vantage point on the ridge where the truck had come to a stop, she can count numerous buildings and halls, as well as open squares, all surrounded by brick walls twice as tall as she was.

"Welcome to Day walker land, lady."

She swallows, turning to consider her driver once more. "Day walker land?"

"Well, it's called The Valley of the Sun. But I prefer Day walker land." He stalks off ahead, making to start a descent of the ridge and down into the valley, the goat that had been her companion at his heels.

"Wait!" She called out to him, panicking. "Who are you? And why did you bring me here? How did you know who I was?"

"Easy, lady, one at a time!" He raises callused palms in defence against her verbal battery. "My name is Cid. I was told to bring you here. And honestly, haven't got a fuckin' clue who you are. Now let's get a move on before that sun sinks below those there mountains. Don't wanna get stuck out here, knowing what's chasing you."

Her heart spasmed in her chest, feet rooted to the spot as she battled with her indecision. He was certainly right about one thing; she didn't want to stay out in the Spanish wilderness after nightfall. She worried her lip, trying her best to fathom who had sent him to bring her here, and why. Kane had been a day walker, she told herself, and he had tried to help her. Surely, she would be safe here?

Cid watched her silently, the angry orange ring of his cigarette flaring momentarily in the dying light. "Alright. Just tell me who sent you."

He shook his head. "I ain't got time for this. One of us is dead, and its 'cause of you. There's gunna be fuckin' war, you're sat dead-centre, and you're worried about _who sent me_?!"

"Dead?" She repeated, cold settling it her gut. "It can't be Kane?"

His silence told her more than his words could. Her legs suddenly heavy, she followed the gruff man, only half-listening to his muttered tirades as they descended the steep ridge down into the Valley of the Sun.

-0-

She wasn't paying any attention to where her unwilling guide led her, instead watching her weary feet carry her there. They passed through the main gate, a heavy creaking monstrosity of solid silver (a fact kindly provided by Cid), and into a spacious, flame-lit courtyard. She raised her head up.

All around the courtyard stood beautiful women and men with golden hair, deep straw to the palest yellow, watching her carefully. Their skin told of years spent toiling beneath the sun, kissed golden or olive. The women all wore identical floor-length dresses, with one-shoulder exposed, though the colour seemed to vary. The men wore rich linen pants festooned with golden belts, their chests bare and gleaming in the glow of the torches.

She was looking upon the elite human sub-race of the day walkers.

"Is this the girl?" One of them spoke, a tall mature woman with hair the colour of sun-kissed wheat, falling to her waist in tumbling waves. Tifa could sense the authority in her voice, and her dress stood out, being pure white.

Cid puffed on his cigarette. "Uh-huh. Make no mistake. I been on her trail for days."

She whirled around, heart racing at an near-unhealthy pace. "_You_ butchered those cattle this morning?"

Cid frowned, shaking his head. "That was—that wasn't me. Whatever it was—it knew I was there. But I think he didn' wanna risk upsettin' the Sun Squad."

"Must you insist on your infantile nicknames…" The mature golden-haired woman sighed deeply, massaging the bridge of her nose.

"Please…" Tifa's voice was barely loud enough to register over the babble of chatter that had erupted at Cid's comments. Some were laughing; the younger ones, Tifa noticed who wore faultless robes of scarlet and yellow. Their elders seemed worried; they conversed among themselves, voices hushed and hurried. Something was clearly unsettling them. "I just want to know what the FUCK IS GOING ON?!"

All eyes settled on her, the only dark-haired woman there, with her travel-stained clothing and heaving shoulders. "I just… want to know what I've done. Cid said someone had died… and it was my fault."

The mature woman stepped towards her, maternal concern etching her features. "Cid, you've done enough thank you. I will speak with you later. For now, this young woman deserves some rest. Abigail, Trystan!" At her authorities tone, two beautiful young Day Walkers came forward; the former couldn't have been older than sixteen. "Prepare one of the vault-rooms for our guest. Make sure she has everything she needs."

Many of the Day Walkers were retreating into the various outbuildings by now, though still the buzz of her arrival seemed to be playing on their minds; they cast their gazes back, wondering what danger she was bringing to their doorstep. By now, their shadows stretched tall and dancing in the flame torches. Once she was satisfied they were relatively alone, the woman spoke again, taking Tifa by the arm and guiding her at a steady pace across the courtyard.

"Now, Tifa, isn't it? My name is Maergery, and I am the elder here. We have a lot to discuss, but first I must insist you eat something and make sure you are comfortable."

They entered through several doorways before reaching what appeared to be Maergery's private quarters. Young Day walkers barred the doors from the inside and retreated into the shadows, though Tifa was ever conscious of their graceful presence in the background. She found herself seated in a high-backed cushioned chair at a table spread with wonderful food. Her stomach growled insistently, yet she found she could not manager much-The anxiety weighed too heavy upon her. Yet out of politeness to her host, who sat adjacent to her sipping at a beaker of wine, she forced down some cured meat and a few morsels of fruit.

Her hunger delayed momentarily, she took a moment to appraise the room. The walls were of bare, sand-coloured stone, festooned with white banners bearing a sigil in gold; a burning sun, bisected by a pointed silver knife. A log fire burned in an open hearth. "What is this place?"

"It is a safe house, if you will- You aware of our co-existence with the Night Dwellers?"

"The Vampires…" The word never sounded real to her. "Yes."

Maergery nodded curtly. "Well, we house them here, should they wish to… go away for a little while. Tens of feet below us, out of reach of the sun's rays, lie vaults. It is there that we keep them, safe from their enemies. In return, we are given vitality, and protection. It is a balance that has existed for centuries and centuries."

"Cid… he mentioned something about a war…" Maergery's full lips became a firm line. Clearly she didn't approve of Cid's approach.

"Cid—although he is what you might call an idiot—he is right. There is something on the horizon, something close to breaking… I can feel it." For a moment, the woman was not in the room. She gazed into the flames that crackled merrily in the hearth, and Tifa had to wonder just how old she was, to be an elder. To her eyes, she appeared a youthful forty. She had a dignified beauty about her. "Kane…" She shakes her head slowly, finishing with a deep sigh.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes- I knew it before word reached me. Of course I would know—he was my son."

"I'm sorry, Maergery. He was very kind to me." Tifa's hand faltered halfway across the table, unsure of how to comfort this woman, or if indeed it was her place to.

"His death was his punishment." Her stare hardened, cobalt irises smouldering in the firelight. "He has brought war upon us."

"Punishment for what?"

"Oh Tifa. Sweet child of Eve…" firm fingers reached over to cup her chin. "His was the greatest deception. You trusted him, and he betrayed you. He betrayed all of us."

"Please…" Tifa begged, clutching at the hand that offered her little comfort. "What deception?"

"He wanted revenge against Scarlett. Decades ago, she murdered his lover. Drained her dry." Tifa's blood ran cold in her veins, her knuckles tightening as the gripped the table. "And what better way to do it, than plant his seed within you—descendent of the finest of bloodlines. Scarlett's only remaining descendant, a blood line that she had dedicated herself to protect."

"Seed?" She raises her hand to her stomach. The dream… had it all been a lie? The room started to spin.

"He violated your trust, and he violated your body. Now you carry within you a being of the purest blood. Half Day Walker, half blood of Eve."

"…Eve?" She'd never been religious. Surely Maergery didn't believe that she…

"It's a blood line that can be traced back to humanity's very beginning- A blood line that has always been lusted for by the Night Walkers. Some wanted to preserve it, so that it may be indulged upon, and yet it was near hunted to extinction…" Something changed in her expression. She stood slowly, fingers poised upon the table top. "And so, here you sit. Marked by a Night walker, blood of Eve, and a Mother of Day."

-0-

**Thanks to those who nagged me. I knew I needed to get down to it. It was finding some boyfriend-free time to do it. I hope you enjoyed it, and please forgive any errors. 90% of this I wrote today.**


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